Angels at Night
by Choco-Loki
Summary: After a chance meeting with socially prominent Alfred F. Jones, unpopular university student Arthur Kirkland is thrown into the world of love, glamour, and scandals. Human AU. USUK/FrUK.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Written for my friend, who bought me a personalized GerIta bracelet and had to explain to the shopkeeper that GerIta wasn't her name, but a random word. My first AU USUK/FrUK. Let's see where this leads us.

By the way, I literally woke up with the idea. If there has been a story done with this idea, I sincerely apologize and hope that it is not too similar.

**Notes**: -Commoner!Arthur and Rich!Alfred. Oh, yeah. Haha, pretend nerd!Arthur is like Mia from Princess Dairies (I've only watched the first movie). Princess Arthur of England, lols.  
>-Oh, and since the setting is in London (and I am hell and gone from Europe), Google Map is my only friend so I apologize if I get the geography of the area wrong.<br>-Feliciano and Arthur are girl friends. -snorts- They're both around 19-20.

Sp/grammatical errors, DM-linked words, and possible plot holes will be fixed after publication.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>Arthur Kirkland never really bothered about his wardrobe. Sure, he was roommates with Feliciano Vargas, <em>the<em> Feliciano Vargas whose brother ran a famous designer clothing line that dominated most of Europe (and the urban areas in America), thus giving him access to multiple fashion shows and after parties, including a seemingly unlimited supply of new outfits, but that didn't mean a thing to Arthur. Popularity didn't ensure a person a position in a top university in London, and it certainly didn't do much to help their over-inflated egos. After all, Arthur was in the school on a scholarship, and he didn't think he should waste his time on getting updates on what to wear and what was "in".

Once again, he had studied well into the night in preparation for his exams on physics and Literature (God knows why he'd thought of taking it, but he was never one to back out of a major) and Journalism while Feliciano, for once, was deeply asleep on his bed instead of out on some sexually fraught night out in a pub with that German acquaintance of his, his open sketchbook lying next to him. Maybe if Arthur hadn't been so pessimistic—no, scratch that, he was being _realistic_—he would've taken Graphic Design and had avoided endless nights such as this. He supposed Feliciano could do whatever he wanted to do in college, since his whole future was practically laid out in front of him; and even if he didn't join his brother and run the company, with all his connections and his artistry and charms Arthur didn't think it'd take him long to find a decent job.

So Feliciano can strut and be pretty in all his in-season shirts and jeans, he was going to read his damn physics book until his eyes fell out and landed on the words "Rotational Equilibrium". He didn't have the time to worry about what to wear and which parties he'd been missing out on.

He pushed his glasses back and flipped the page in his godforsaken textbook.

* * *

><p><em>Coffee shop…<em>

Arthur stretched and emitted a long, tiresome yawn. He should really stop working so late, but at least his classes were over and school was out for the next week. In other words, he was free to laze about, but more often than not he would be cooped up in the library, preparing for the new subjects.

Feliciano munched off the corner of his scone before setting it down and poking the plate away. "You sound like an old man, Arthur," he commented. "Are you all done with your exams?"

"Yes," he replied, eyeing the Italian curiously. Everyday he looked exactly the same—bright smile, sunny disposition, carefree—and that was precisely the reason Arthur thought there must be something wrong with the boy. "I haven't seen you studying."

"Oh, no," Feliciano said, retrieving his sketchbook from his bag and presenting the Brit with an array of inked clothing designs. "This _is_ my exam. I've been working on this the entire month."

Arthur huffed to himself and leaned on his chair, gazing at nothing in particular.

"Isn't that German fellow taking you out to dinner tonight?" he asked.

Feliciano smiled into his teacup.

"_Sì_! Ludwig is so nice!" he chirped, though his tone slowed down as he noticed something. "And…um, Arthur…how long have you had that sweater?"

"What are you, my mother?" Arthur said irritably. "Why do you need to know, anyways?"

"…I thought maybe I could take you shopping and pick out something, you know—"

"I don't have time for this, Feliciano," he said, crossing his arms. "You know I can't afford anything fancy."

The boy's face fell. "I didn't mean it like that, Arthur, I thought since you are done with your tests we could celebrate and I can get something nice for you—"

Arthur's teacup clinked as it hit the dish; he stood up, gathering his bag and jacket.

"Thank you for your concern, but I believe that will be quite unnecessary," he said frostily.

"A-ah, wait!" Feliciano picked up his things and left a couple of bills on the table before dashing after Arthur. "I'm really sorry, you just looked like you've been working hard and I wanted to get you a present!"

Arthur sighed at Feliciano, whose lips were trembling in terror, and shrugged. "I'm not angry."

"Oh, okay then!" Feliciano soon fell in step with the Brit and beamed at him cheerfully. "I heard that there are new students coming to the university today!"

Arthur quirked his eyebrow. "At this time of the year?"

Feliciano tapped the side of his face, thinking.

"Some overseas program. I remembered because I think their parents had something to do with my frate—" He suddenly stopped walking, his mouth open half-way and the blood draining out of his cheeks. "Oh, no."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm supposed to meet my brother at the airport today! I forgot!" He hurriedly checked his watch, his eyes growing wide. "His flight lands in ten minutes—I-I have to go, Arthur. I'll see you later!"

With that, he hastily scampered away in the opposite direction, frantically searching for a cab. Arthur waved half-heartedly and continued back on his way to the university, the ridiculously-sized physics textbook stored in his bag weighing him down. He wondered if he really was content with how his university years were turning out—

Yes. Of course he was satisfied. His grades were better than most, and he was confident that he'd graduate at the top of his Literature class. But what he always pondered was why he had decided on attending school in London.

To impress his parents and spite his enemies, maybe. To show that one didn't have to be filthy rich to be accepted into this school. To show that even a loser like him could become better than the people who'd made fun of him in the long run.

There had been a feeling of elation and achievement when the acceptance letter arrived, until he noticed that girls were mocking him behind his back, and the guys were laughing at him when he walked across the campus. He hadn't imagined that something as superficial as looks would matter here.

Then again, people were shallow, whether it was in secondary school or college. The only difference was that in secondary school his brothers would throttle the ones who dared to pick on him.

He sure didn't feel much accomplished by the time Feliciano, clad in skinny jeans and boots and half-buttoned Armani shirt, marched into his apartment and introduced himself as his roommate. But Feliciano turned out to be sweet and adoring and could care less what Arthur looked like or wore (Arthur's cooking, however, was another matter entirely). So for a while he forgot about the rumors.

He took another step at the same time a man pushed up from behind and wrenched his bag off his shoulders; the thief charged into the crowd ahead, physics textbook and all.

_What the—_

Arthur sped after him, shouting furiously. Did the bastard think he was a girl, that he kept his wallet in his satchel (it was _not_ a purse, dammit!)? or did the tosser single him out because he thought that Arthur wouldn't be able to catch up with him?

"Stop running, you wanker—"

He had chased the guy for about a block before someone crashed into the man from the side, the two skidding to the concrete. Arthur swooped in and snatched his bag back just as the thief got to his feet and scrambled away; he bent over to breathe, cursing quietly at the fact that pedestrians were probably staring at him and how the do-gooder saved him as if he were a bloody_ girl_.

Do-gooder was dusting off his pants with one hand as he stood up.

"Damn! I was supposed to punch him in the end. And you're not a hot chick, either." He chuckled, and Arthur could feel his face turning red. "Guess real-life doesn't have the same ending as movies, huh?"

His accent was obviously American. Arthur straightened, expecting to see either a creepy middle-aged man or a video-game-obsessed weirdo, but the person standing before him seemed about the same age as him, with blond hair and bright-blue eyes that flashed in amusement behind glasses, and a dashing smile, complete with an shirt that outlined his body perfectly—not that Arthur was looking.

For all he knew, the git could've stepped out of the sodding magazine.

"You going to thank me or do I have to take you out for coffee first?"

The guy should really be glad that Arthur was too exhausted to punch him.

"_Thank you_ for stopping that man," he muttered, sounding ungrateful, even to himself.

Do-gooder grinned at him, as if he did not mind.

"Does that come with a kiss or something?" he teased.

Was he flirting with him? Arthur glared at him, adjusting his bag. "No. If you'll excuse me—"

"Hey, wait!"

A hand held him back and Arthur instinctively recoiled on touch, staring at the man in horror.

"What do you _want_?"

He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm kind of lost, actually. I was supposed to meet my brother at some hotel called Dorchester. I sorta missed my ride so I had to call my friend, and he dropped me off here…"

Arthur then saw the guy's luggage sitting by his feet. "Keep walking down the street and you'll get there eventual—" He paused, blinking at the guy's palm. "You're bleeding."

Do-gooder looked at his hand. "Huh. I guess so."

"Oh, damn it all, I'm sorry. I should help you wrap that up—"

"No need," he said brightly. "A hero's gotta make sacrifices, and I'm already running late. I'll see you around…uh…"

_Sacrifices? What the hell? _"Arthur."

He winked.

"Right. Artie. You can call me Al."

Arthur's eye twitched in annoyance at the nickname. "My name is—"

The American had already picked up his bag and bounded across the street like some idiot tourist. As he did so, however, something metallic dropped from his pocket to the ground by Arthur's feet—the guy had left his keys behind.

And he was already on the other side of the road.

* * *

><p><em>Apartment…<em>

"Al? As in Alfred F. Jones?"

Arthur was lying on the bed, his legs propped against the wall, his notebook covering his face. "That's what the tag on his key says."

But to be honest, the ring only had one key hanging on it, the rest were little American flag trinkets and hamburger and soda charms.

Feliciano had just finished ranting about how his brother had thrown a fit at the airport and how he'd barely managed to make it in time to meet up with Ludwig when his attention was diverted by do-gooder's name. His expression was a cross between cute and an elderly person trying to recalled where he'd left the TV remote.

"Alfred Jones…" Feliciano sat backwards on his swivel chair, his chin on the headrest. "Isn't he the one coming to the University for that study-abroad thing? Him and his brother?"

Arthur was glad the notebook covered his stupefied expression. He threw the notes to the side and took off his glasses.

"So?" he demanded.

"So…my brother is here for the Autumn-Winter fashion show, and Jones's parents are funding it, that's why I remembered his name. There's an after party in three days, and that means you can give the keys back to him if you come with me!"

So do-gooder was just another rich boy, living off his parent's cash and throwing parties on the side. Like half of the wealthy brats attending this university.

_Does that come with a kiss or something?_

What the hell was he doing, mentally chasing after some guy he'd just met on the streets (who happened to be extremely rich and hot, but that was _not_ the point) and going as far as to follow him to a private event? That made him about as bad as a stalker.

"I can return his keys when he comes to the school, Feliciano."

Feliciano pulled a face. "But what if he needs it _now_? It might be the keys to a safe, or his girlfriend's apartment, or his puppy's cage—"

Arthur frowned at the word 'girlfriend', to which he then wondered why he would even care. Jones must've had a billion girls back in the States from the way he spoke to Arthur that afternoon…which meant that Jones was making fun of him the whole time, the nerve of that little—! Arthur sat up in his bed and scowled at Feliciano.

"Oh, alright. But I'm just going to give them back to the git, I'm not going to stay for your little party or anything—"

"Yay! We can go to my brother's store and—"

"I'm not letting you dress me up as if I'm some girl," Arthur hissed. "I said I'm just going to give his bloody keys back."

Feliciano twirled his pencil in one hand, calculating.

"The after party's not exactly black tie, but I don't think they'll let you in with jeans and sweaters, either."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he muttered. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'll take you there tomorrow," Feliciano said warmly. "And you know…your eyes are actually really pretty. You should wear contacts."

Arthur buried his head into his pillow.

"I am going to pretend what you just said wasn't creepy."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you all for reviews/favs/alerts! Sorry that I couldn't reply to all of them, I've been banging my head on my desk writing Sketching Out Memories Ch. 1. Omgod, when did writing become so constipated? XD

Anyways, sexy-tiems insue, Arthur panics. I do enjoy my rapist!Francis. Luciana differentiates between the Vargas brothers by referring to Lovino with Signore, and Feliciano as Mister (because Lovino is her boss, she feels the need to be all Italian, iouno).

Sp/grammatical errors, DM-linked words, and possible plot holes will be fixed after publication.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>Arthur was really counting on Feliciano forgetting about what he'd said the night before, seeing as the boy could never remember when his papers were due, but apparently he woke up bright and early (for possibly the first time in his life) to get dressed and pull Arthur out of bed. At ten o' clock, Feliciano had the Brit in a tow and the two were heading towards what could be the most trendy and <em>expensive<em> shopping center in London.

In other words, Arthur was screwed, walking around this part of town in his year-old sweater vest and ratty jeans.

But whether Feliciano had some magical power that made passers-by look to him instead of Arthur, or if these Gucci-bag-loaded, fashion-obsessed socialites just didn't deem Arthur important enough to be noticed, at least he didn't have to worry about people staring him down as if he were some sort of alien. Maybe he was supposed to feel offended at this.

Whatever.

Another wish that Arthur made on the sidelines was that hopefully Feliciano's brother's shop was not too fancy; he was sort of praying that it would be akin to some outlet store in which overweight grandmothers would look for khaki pants for their grandkids in college, and five-year olds would scream at each other from across the aisles while shop assistants filed their nails behind the counter.

How wrong he was. In fact, the assumption was so morbidly off that Arthur felt a slight urge to slap himself.

The moment Feliciano stopped in front of the largest shop in the square he should've know that he was in trouble. Through the glass, he noticed that all of the employees were beautiful women in tight, black skirts and white ruffled blouses, their hair piled up into either neat buns or curly ponytails (although Arthur got the feeling that they could snap him like a board if they really wanted to, looking at the way they stared contemptuously at the ill-dressed passers-by on the street). There were no ripped jeans allowed, no sweatshirts, no cheap earrings from some no-name mall's Christmas sale, and definitely no khaki pants. Smiling, the brunette shoved Arthur inside, causing him a near-collision with a tall, stern-faced woman.

"Luciana!" he exclaimed, greeting the lady with a kiss on both cheeks. "I haven't seen you in a long time, _bella_!"

She accepted his endearments gracefully, but pushed him away the moment he was finished.

"You saw me last week, Mr. Vargas," she said in a rich, accented voice; she turned to Arthur in obvious scorn. "And who is this?"

_Shouldn't shop assistants be friendlier? _"My name is Arthur—"

"He needs something to wear to the Autumn-Winter fashion show and the after party. With me," Feliciano added quickly, as if afraid that Luciana would lash out some hideous insult at the Brit.

Truthfully, she probably would have, judging by the look of distain on her face, but she pursed her lips and nodded stiffly.

"Very well," she said, turning to Arthur. "Please come with me. Adrianna!" She shouted at another girl standing at the counter in a succession of rapid Italian. And even if Arthur didn't understand a word of it he was quite positive that it didn't refer to him nicely.

As Adrianna scampered off in search of clothing that probably would cost Arthur his whole life savings, Feliciano waved cheerily at the two.

"Bye, Arthur! You're going to look great! And oh, yeah…" He checked around the store. "Have you seen my fratello anywhere, Luciana?"

"Wai—Feliciano! I'm not going to the _show_ with you! I only said—"

Luciana briefly whipped around, her hands still gripping Arthur's arms like iron clamps.

"Signore Vargas is busy making the final adjustments on his models' outfits. The first show is tomorrow, so I am afraid you won't see him until then," she said.

A flash of real disappointment crossed Feliciano's face, so sudden that Arthur thought he might've been imagining it; however, the Italian's original pleasant expression returned just as fast.

"Oh, okay then. Luciana will help you pick out something casual for the show and the party." He added in a short whisper, "Don't worry, Arthur, she's actually really nice, even though she looks scary. Like Ludwig, but a little worse—"

Arthur wasn't sure if the way Feliciano tapered off was a good thing or not.

* * *

><p>"A little worse, my arse," Arthur muttered, unbuttoning his jacket. "And why the hell are you waiting outside of my dressing room?"<p>

Eight outfits and six disapproving faces endured from Luciana later, his outlook was grudgingly considered as satisfactory by the woman, although Feliciano gushed over each one with the same enthusiasm. As for now, the brunette fiddled with the cuffs of a blue dress shirt. After chatting with the ladies at the front desk he had slumped into a couch right next to Arthur's changing room, holding on to the rejected clothes and making faces at the opposing mirror.

"Because you're taking too long," he said.

Arthur shrugged.

"I'll take as long as I want," he retorted. "You're the one that brought me here, after all."

"I know, but there's nothing for me to do," he whined.

"Go talk to Adrianna or what's-her-name. And also…why are all the women here so…" He couldn't quite find a word. "…harsh, I suppose?"

Feliciano bit back a yawn.

"They're trained," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Everybody in this store knows at least some sort of self defense," Feliciano explained. "Since the employees are all female, sometimes we get some really strange customers." He paused, as if remembering something. "Fratello gave the managers of his stores in America tasers, just in case."

…_Tasers?_

"Is that even safe—_agh_!"

"What's wrong?"

"Don't _do_ that," Arthur hissed back.

"Don't do what?" Feliciano asked flatly.

Arthur stuck his head out from inside, gripping the curtains to the wall.

"Don't touch the curtain like you're going to open it!"

Feliciano sunk back even further into his couch; it was becoming apparent that he was getting increasingly bored.

"Why not? It's not like you have boobs or something…"

Arthur's face burned. He grabbed a handful of shirts and shook off his glasses, thrusting one arm outside to the Italian.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and hold on to these for me—"

He had meant it as a joke, but it seemed like Feliciano couldn't tell that he was being sarcastic. The items were immediately whisked off his hands in one swoop.

"Hey, careful with my gla—"

"Okay, Arthur!" Feliciano said brightly. "I'll bring these to Luciana. Be right back!"

Arthur sighed in exasperation and rubbed his eyes. It wasn't like he was completely blind without spectacles; it was only that his face felt naked without them, and for some lame, wimpy reason he used to believe that the glasses could hide him from everyone else.

He turned to the mirror, straightening himself. Luciana had made him throw on a grey vest (surprise, surprise) over a white dress shirt and nearly choked him when she was yanking on his scarf. That, plus the black leather jacket and jeans the color of smoke, Arthur didn't think he looked like himself.

He thought he looked like the people who used to make fun of him.

"Goddammit…"

Arthur blinked and shrugged off the jacket, pulling the vest off and fumbling with his buttons. He couldn't believe he had to dress up just to give some spoiled rich boy his keys. Who was he, the guy's babysitter? The more he fumed about it, the darker his mood got, and while cursing at his buttons that refused to come undone, Arthur failed to notice another shadow that had slunk into his dressing compartment and was creeping up behind him.

The moment Arthur felt someone's hands traveling around his waist and wrapping around him, he didn't dare to move. The guy rested his chin on Arthur's right shoulder and breathed into his ear in a very French, very _froggish_, accent.

"I have not seen you around here, _mon cher_. Surely I couldn't have missed someone as lovely as you—"

Oh God, oh God. This must be what Feliciano meant by "strange customers". What the hell was he to do now?

Arthur had meant to whip around and holler at the man in the loudest, _manliest_ damn voice (for that matter) he could muster, but what escaped his throat was a high-pitched squeak when the French bastard's hands wandered lower and slowly unzipped his jeans.

What. The. Fu—

"W-what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" His voice wavered slightly as he pushed backwards, trying to wrench free.

Wrong move. If anyone had come in, they would've thought he was grinding against the taller man. And apparently that was what the creeper thought too.

Frog gave a low chuckle.

"I am only helping _mon petit lapin_, can you not tell?"

Arthur seethed at him as he slapped away an arm.

"You can help me by dragging your arse ten feet away from me, you sodding idiot—_ah, _let_…_go…"

The git had the nerve to bite his ear. He was actually being molested, and by a _man_, too. Arthur slammed his head backward and hit the guy right on his nose. The Frenchman groaned and released Arthur, staggering back and cupping his face in agony.

Feliciano chose that moment to skip in with Luciana, holding a bundle of jeans.

"Arthur!" he called out. "Are you done—oh, Francis! What are you doing here?"

Luciana glanced at Arthur, then back at Francis, analyzing the scene.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, I thought I had politely asked you to refrain from visiting for a week."

Francis composed himself, leering from Arthur to Feliciano to Luciana.

"I just wanted to see how Lovino was coming along with organizing his models, with him arriving so late and all, I thought he might need my help—"

"Signore Vargas is not available, and he doesn't need your advice," Luciana said coolly. "The rest of the store would appreciate it if you le—"

He glided next to her and made a move as if to kiss her on the cheek.

"Alright, whatever the manager wants—_ugh_—"

In that split second, an ugly expression crossed Luciana's face; she sidestepped and punched Francis in the face, sending him flying back onto a hapless Arthur.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, Arthur! I'm really sorry, I didn't know big brother Francis was going to be there—"<p>

Arthur whipped around, indignant.

"He's your _brother_?"

Feliciano looked sheepish.

"Well, not by blood. He insisted we call him that, but…" The Italian pouted and readjusted the five bags he was carrying. "I'm sorry, Arthur, please don't get mad. I'm already carrying your stuff too…"

"He tried to touch me! And that was after Luciana hit him, too!" Arthur protested crossly. "Who is he anyways?"

Feliciano murmured quietly, "He's one of the featured designers for this year…"

Arthur's eyes widened.

"That means he's going to be at the show and the after party. _You little_—"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Arthur continued irritably, but without as much heat, "You're the one dragging me to your fashion show when I made it very, very clear that I am only going to return Jones's keys."

"Keep telling yourself that…"

"_Excuse me_?"

Feliciano shook his head rapidly.

"Nothing, nothing!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thank you all for reviews/favs/alerts! Sorry that I couldn't reply to all of them, I'm still banging my head writing SOM and thinking up more stuff for TMH. And Angel's not a major character. In fact, I don't know if he'll appear. Hurhur, look at me, I'm being punny. /shot

And yes, male models do wear makeup. It supposedly makes them look more chiseled in photos. Male models can also be required to "look slightly feminine in appearance", if the occasion calls.

Yup, there's probably something wrong with me right now. oTL

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication, as always. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>For three consecutive nights, Arthur dreamed of frogs and angry Italians chasing him down an aisle of clearance jeans.<p>

And Jones. Jones was in there, too.

Arthur would be dashing past the dream-Luciana (who, to his horror, wielded an abnormally huge staple gun in each nightmare) when an arm would pull him under a rack of sweaters. He would be face-to-face with Jones, who would lean in and whisper, with breath hot enough that Arthur nearly imagined it to be true, on the Brit's lips—

_Does that come with a kiss or something?_

But then his alarm clock would begin to shriek bloody murder at that exact moment, every single time.

Arthur didn't know whether if he was supposed to be disappointed or thankful.

* * *

><p>On the day Arthur was supposed to make his not-so-grand début to the fashion show, he learned that he was attending it on the last day, the same day the infamous Francis Bonnefoy and Lovino Vargas (whom Feliciano had seemed so keen on meeting) were scheduled for.<p>

He also learned that Feliciano had called a limo to pick them up right in the front of the school. The walk across the campus in his new clothes was not something Arthur intended on doing ever again. Girls stared at him in confusion and embarrassment, wondering if he were a new student; some boys actually had the nerve to whistle to him, not realizing that he was the same Arthur Kirkland they'd been mocking. Without his glasses, he was someone different.

He couldn't believe how daft these students actually were. Arthur didn't think he'd ever touch these jeans and dress shirt after tonight. He had no reason to, he imagined.

Initially, Arthur thought it strange that the driver avoided the main entrance to the building (currently swamped with a mob of reporters and pompous-looking women dressed to kill, having starved themselves for a week in order to fit into their black Chanel cocktail dresses), and wondered if he intended to mug them or something. But Feliciano didn't look daunted. The Italian seemed to know what he was doing; he pushed open the door, revealing a dimly lit warehouse that looked about as clean as it smelled.

"Why couldn't we have gone through the front?" Arthur asked, carefully stepping over a rain puddle (or at least what he thought was a rain puddle). "We're trespassing. I feel like a drug dealer…"

"Too many reporters," Feliciano answered. "I look too much like fratello, they'll think I'm him. Besides, this is the backdoor. They haven't renovated this part yet. Come this way, we're late—"

Arthur almost tripped over a discarded box when Feliciano tugged on his sleeves.

"Why is it so dark in here—"

Feliciano stopped at a wall and brushed it, skimming his hands along the surface until he touched a knob; retrieving a card, he slipped it into a slot and the door clicked open. With a helpful shove, Arthur was pushed in and flooded by a sudden surge of white light.

When the glare died out, what appeared before him was an alien world. Young, beautiful women were sitting on top of stools, letting designers touch up their makeup and curl their locks into neat, delicate bundles. Men, looking sharp and alluring in crisp jeans and various types of dress shirts, were chatting with each other and flashing million dollar smiles at the assistants passing by. And in the middle of it all, a man with piercing almond eyes who bore an uncanny resemblance to Feliciano, right down to a mirrored hair curl, was barking orders at makeup artists and directing the models to get ready.

Before Arthur could ask any questions, Feliciano gripped his wrist and bounded up to the shouting man, letting go briefly to tackle the other brunette in a constricting hug.

"Fratello!" he yelled. "I'm sorry I'm late! I brought a friend with me and—"

So this was the famous Lovino Vargas, the one who had, fresh out of university, created a name and made a fortune in the fashion industry in three short years. He could've easily been mistaken as Feliciano's twin, although there was something about him that discerned him from his brother, something Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on…

Lovino pried Feliciano's hands away and glared fiercely, crossing his arms.

"There you are," he snapped. "I don't have time for your games today. I have to run a show with that wine bastard breathing down my neck every five seconds, and Luciana couldn't be here today because of some emergency. I'm missing a male model and that woman over there can't get her damn hair to stay put. The assistants here are all incompetent fools, the lot of them!"

If Feliciano had an evil twin, Lovino was it. Nevertheless, Feliciano shone his sweetest grin, as if he were used to such replies.

"Ve, it can't be that bad—"

"Can't be that bad? I've got you here now, that makes it all the worse!" he said angrily. With a quick turn, he noticed Arthur and began to scrutinize him. "Those are my designs," he concluded flatly. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Art—"

"Yeah, I really care. Arieta!" he shrieked at the woman on the stool. "If you don't get your hair to stay up this instant I am going to snip them off!"

The woman rolled her mascara-dolled eyes and trilled to Lovino in Italian. He responded with equal animosity before frowning back at his brother.

"Feliciano, look," he hissed, "if you and your British friend aren't here to exterminate frogs, then stay out of my way, understand?"

"Don't be so harsh on them, _mi amor_," came a new voice. "I will make sure everything goes as it should, mm?"

Lovino scowled at the man, but his blush was impossible to hide.

"Get back in line, tomato bastard," he seethed. "You're going up soon."

The man chuckled and moved down to kiss the nape of Lovino's neck, narrowly missing a fist aimed for his nose.

"Of course. Well then, Feli, I do not think I will see you and your friend at the after party, unfortunately," he said in a handsome Spanish-accented drawl. "My dear Lovi and I will be busy for the rest of the nigh—"

"Just go!"

The clamors from the crowd and camera flashes increased as the man winked at Lovino and stepped out onto the runway. But the louder the background music blared, the more frustrated Lovino seemed to become.

Feliciano whispered in Arthur's ear, "That's fratello's boyfriend, Antonio. They're always like that."

Arthur raised his eyebrow.

"Isn't that considered domestic abuse?" he remarked drily.

"Dammit! He's late!" Lovino burst out to his phone, his face flushing scarlet as he paced the floor. "What the hell, I told him the time changed to eight at night, what does he think he's pulling—"

"What's wrong, Lovino?" Feliciano ventured innocently. "Can I help—"

"Shut up, Veneziano. Just. One. Second." Lovino grinded his teeth and muttered to his phone. "Need a replacement…"

Feliciano piped up again, "Are you missing a model? Is it Heracles? Did he forget the time again?"

Lovino furrowed his eyebrows at his brother as if deciding whether or not to chew him out, but finally sighed in defeat as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"It's not Heracles, the idiot actually remembered the time because Sadiq made a bet with him. It's Angel. He's stuck in traffic. I _told_ him to leave early, twice!"

Arthur wasn't sure which was more bizarre: how red Lovino's face had gotten or the fact that there was a man named Angel.

"I can't let that wine bastard take the spotlight this year just because of an absentee, I had everything planned out perfectly for this show!" He grabbed Feliciano's collar and pulled him closer, his expression becoming significantly darker. "Angel was supposed to wear the showcase outfit," he hissed dangerously. "Without him strutting his ass out there my other models will be overshadowed by Bonnefoy's Russian freaks and that potato!"

Feliciano whimpered, "Ve…but Antonio is always on the cover pages, it'll be okay—oh, is Gilbert here? I want to say hi—"

"Like hell I'm letting you talk to the frog's models! I had Angel planned for the finale! I can't—" He paused, blinking at Arthur. "You. Your face isn't that terribly deformed."

_Well. _

"Thank you for the compliment—"

Lovino continued without missing a beat, "You can sub for Angel."

Arthur blinked, raising his hands in defense.

"I-I don't—"

Feliciano clapped his hands as recognition dawned on him.

"Yes! You look kind of like Angel, no one will be able to tell the difference!" he enthused happily.

"I can't _model, _you bloody moron—"

Lovino snapped his finger, signaling for an assistant while assessing Arthur's current outfit.

"Don't be stupid," he said, still contemplating. "Anyone with half a brain can model. Even Feliciano can do it, why can't you?"

That was a pretty bad comparison, Arthur thought, considering that Feliciano had a dashing smile and would be more than willing prance in front of a million people.

"Then tell him to do it!"

"Not my brother," Lovino snarled back, "unless I want to be the international laughingstock twenty years down the road."

"You can't make me go up there," Arthur growled. "I-I didn't come here to make an absolute fool—"

"I'll pay you."

"You're not—"

"Two thousand pounds."

Arthur's mouth opened, but he found nothing to say.

* * *

><p>"You should be bloody glad you're not dead right now," Arthur muttered indignantly to Feliciano. "I told you a thousand times I'm here to return Jones's keys, I can't believe—"<p>

After a flurry of stylists and Lovino's numerous not-so-constructive-criticisms, Arthur Kirkland had emerged from the dressing room clothed in white—light, ivory-colored jeans that fit snugly around his thighs and ended a bit below his knees, a fitted, snowy sweater with sleeves that went to his mid-palms, chocolate-shaded gloves, topped off with a silvery scarf which was to trail behind him when he walked out. He was this close to screaming when he saw himself in the mirror; if he complained about Jones making him feel like a woman, he sure doubted whatever was left of his masculinity now.

He didn't look like himself anymore. To be honest, he didn't think he would've been able to fit into the outfit if his living expenses on food hadn't been so restricted.

For the first time in his life, Arthur wore makeup, and that wasn't something he was keen on telling his mother if she ever called. What an awkward conversation that would be, he could almost conjure it up in his mind—_"Arthur, honey, you haven't called home in such a long time! I've been wondering what you've been up to in London! Wha—what's what? You're modeling? Haha! That's the funniest joke I've heard in a long time! I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that you're wearing mascara!" _

He was, in fact, wearing mascara. Not only that, but platinum eyeliner and foundation and lip balm (thank God). Arthur swiped at his hair, trying to get the glitter off, before Lovino slapped it away.

"Don't touch!" he berated. "I just got that ridiculous hair of yours to cover those eyebrows. You're up after Sadiq, get ready in five minutes!"

Arthur resisted the urge to flip his finger at Lovino. He was doing this for money. Two thousand pounds was a hell of a lot of money. Living expenses could be covered, along with some textbook fees, so he should try to not "fuck this up", as Lovino so elegantly put it.

"You look really good!" Feliciano exclaimed. "But you should smil—"

Arthur glared at him malevolently.

"Just be quiet, Feliciano," he groaned. He's doing this for money. Money. Money. Money—

Feliciano picked up a pair of shoes and laid them on the ground next to Arthur's feet. Arthur stared at them: dark tan leather boots that ran up to his mid-calves. With heels.

Forget about eyeliner or mascara. If he didn't trip and die first, Arthur would count himself lucky.

"I can't wear that, Feliciano, that's just…" He shook his head. "That's impossible."

Lovino's voice bellowed from the other side of the room. "You're up next, Eyebrows! If you screw this up I will _not_ hesitate to rip your gullet out!"

The brunette glanced briefly at the runway exit and motioned for Arthur to stand.

"Hurry!" he said, helping the Brit into the shoes and acting as a support. "Try to stand straight and land on your heel. Don't throw your weight to the front."

He had no time to question as to how Feliciano knew that.

"Wha—what am I supposed to even _do_?"

"Haven't you watched fashion shows before?"

"No!"

"Oh. That could be a problem." Feliciano blinked, but his smile returned just as rapidly. "It's okay! Do what Angel does then!"

"I don't even know who Angel is!"

"Then copy what Sadiq does! No facial expressions and stare straight ahead."

Arthur deadpanned. "That doesn't sound right—"

Feliciano nudged him out then, and Arthur just barely managed to regain his balance and stop himself from tumbling to his death. The runway was raised slightly, so at least in the dark he couldn't quite see the sea of journalists and critics. There was Sadiq, walking robotically in _regular shoes_ with the most blank expression Arthur had ever seen on anyone's face, stopping at the end of the strip and staring out at nothing before turning around. So that was what he should do. Look dead.

Except he could feel his damn knees wobbling, and the heels were not making it any better. He was trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

_Look straight ahead, Arthur. Look like you could care less and that you're only up here for money._

Which, for the most part, was true. The walk to the edge seemed to take an eternity. He paused for a minute, his heart pounding, and looked straight out into the dark. For a second there he was feeling pretty great (he would've let out a strangled giggle, but that was akin to forfeiting his two thousand pounds), like he'd finally gotten the hang of this, but then a beam of light from overhead swiveled across the audience, and that was about when Arthur realized there were roughly over half a thousand people directly in front of him.

_Bloody hell._

And sitting right in the front row was none other than Alfred F. Jones, looking bored enough to doze off. However, he caught Arthur's stunned look and gaped back, having been jarred awake and appearing more alive than ever.

Time to run.

He gave one last, lingering gaze above Jones's head and turned, trying to not break into a sprint lest fall and break his nose. When he finally returned backstage, he saw Lovino let out an obvious sigh of relief and grudgingly mutter something along the lines of, "It could've been better", and was jumped on by an eager Feliciano, who gushed over him and apologized over and over again (for what, Arthur wasn't exactly certain).

And strangely, all he could remember at that moment was that Jones's eyes were really _blue_.

Dammit.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Once again**, **thank you all for reviews/favs/alerts! Sorry that I couldn't get to them all! ;-; Honestly, I had planned for this chapter to be sex-fueled or something, but it turned into this, lol. I dunno if it's just me, but I'm imagining post-drunk!Arthur to be a sappy, disorientated fool; the way Himaruya said England was a romantic at heart. And rich!Alfred as a brat-nice-person-inside. It will be USUK, btw.

For SOM readers out there, I'm here to say that it will be delayed, as usual. When I snap out of my funk and get back to it, whenever that may be, I'll work on it more, I promise. oTL

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>Arthur had expected (or rather, hoped for) a party that consisted of smashed guests and unknown alcoholic mixtures passed around in red plastic cups, but he gave up when an elegantly dressed waiter presented him with a delicate wine glass filled to the brim with a pale, bubbly liquid. This was an after party held in honor of the top-notch designers, and clearly whoever planned the event (Jones's parents, most likely) knew that there was no way Lovino Vargas, one of the main stars of the show, would even put a toe inside if the gathering wasn't as grand as this.<p>

Lovino showed up for ten minutes, grumbled loudly about how the event wasn't to his tastes, and was carried out by Antonio back into the limo.

After milling about the crowd in search of Feliciano (whom he'd found in some discreet hallway, letting that blond German friend of his mouth along his neck), Arthur resigned himself to the bar, pushing his still full glass farther and farther away to the corner because he'd renounced drinking in public, or maybe ever. Every single time he drank, there were always Situations, one of which involved waking up to a naked man and then proceeding to throttle the guy when said naked man woke up and pounced on him.

He knew he was supposed to be looking for Jones, but after surveying the crowd he concluded that he'd be wandering for an eternity, weaving in between designers and celebrities until he tripped over somebody and made a face-plant on the marble floors. After changing into leather boots and a more comfortable (although still too feminine for his liking) white dress shirt, accompanied with grey jeans that clung to his legs snugly, he'd completely forgotten that he still had a thin layer of makeup on his face, not to mention glitter dust tangled in his hair that refused to wash off. But he had received his Two Thousand Pounds, and although Lovino did gripe about how his performance was probably only sixty percent at best, he decided that he could afford to forfeit studying for just tonight.

But the problem was that it was only ten, and he got the feeling that Feliciano wasn't about to leave that early, despite that fact that Arthur had class the next morning.

A smooth, drawn-out voice came from behind, followed by a hand on Arthur's shoulder, "Hey, weren't you the one on the stage?"

Arthur turned around and met face-to-face with Alfred F. Jones, who was flashing this ridiculous smile at him. His mouth dropped open slightly, and some fucked up part of his brain wondered if he looked like a goldfish in a toilet bowl. Goddamit, Jones was going to find out, he was going to be ruined for the rest of his life, labeled as a loser _and_ a stalker and embarrassed for years to come—

Arthur blinked, stumbling over his words, "Uh…"

"I haven't seen you in Mr. Vargas's show before, I don't think," he said, grinning. "But then again, I don't pay attention anyways." Jones grabbed a seat next to him and motioned for the bartender. "So." He smacked his lips absently. "Can I buy you a drink?"

_Huh?_

"Um, you don't have t—"

Too late, Jones was already talking to the bartender. He turned back, beaming blankly.

"Did you say something?" he asked.

"I—never mind." Did he not remember Arthur? Or way he just playing dumb—?

"Alrighty then. My name's Alfred. What's yours?

Oh, so he wasn't playing dumb, he was just plain dumb. The bartender returned with the drinks, placing in front of Arthur a glass of mysterious neon blue liquid. He gazed at the ice cubes clinking against each other in the drink and answered, "I'm Ar—"

Wait a minute, why should he tell Alfred his real name? What was he going to say, anyways? _"Hi! My name's Arthur, you met me on the street when you were chasing after that person who stole my purs—bag. By the way, you dropped your keys and I dolled myself up so that I could follow you here to return them instead of waiting for you to come by the university!" _

Hell no.

"Angel," he muttered finally.

The blond raised his drink to his lips (a soda can, Arthur realized), but paused when he heard Arthur's reply. "I'm sorry?"

"Y-you asked for my name," Arthur said, wanting to smack himself for stuttering.

"Oh." Alfred's befuddled expression cleared up and he took a gulp. "Okay then, I'm cool with that. Angel. Is that your stage name or what—"

Oh, shit. "Are you drinking soda?" Arthur piped in quickly, not wanting to go into details, in case the real Angel, whoever he might be, decided to show up.

Alfred laughed, the sound enough to send shivers down Arthur's back. _Goddammit_.

"Yep," he said. "Asked the bartender to dig up a Bud Light, but he gave me this funny look." He leaned in next to Arthur's ear, his breath warm as he said in that godforsaken American accent, "Why, do you want a sip?"

Arthur's face felt hot, and he was certain it must be obviously tinted red by now. He grasped his martini glass and drank the contents in one go, the liquor burning his nose. Screw Jones. Screw no drinking in public. He wasn't going to let Jones treat him like a girl, or worse, his plaything.

"No," he replied tightly, "I don't want to drink your sodding soda."

Just this one night, he promised himself. Twenty minutes later Arthur had gone through five shots of rum, and his head was feeling way too light for comfort. Alfred was rubbing his back, his charming cover soon fading away to genuinely concerned, while Arthur babbled on about nonsense. This was bad, he should be looking for Feliciano, he should be going back to the apartment and he should be on his bed, flipping through his textbook in his shabby, overstretched sweater, not spewing out physic formulas to a bewildered Alfred.

But as incoherent as he was, out of the corner of his eye Arthur spotted Bonnefoy a couple crowds away, making his rounds and creeping up on select ladies (and men, for that matter), wooing them with his stupid accent hammed up another hundred percent and letting his hands wander everywhere. But apparently the frog was not that immersed in doing so, for he turned his head and made eye contact with the Brit, his face lighting up as he bid farewell to the current lady in his arms, preparing to make his way over to Arthur.

Arthur blamed it on the alcohol. Every time there was alcohol involved with him he always did something crazy. But whether if it had been the combination between Francis jauntily striding over (his leering glance seeming more frightening than usual), or the rum and Alfred's blue drink extravaganza, Arthur leaned forward, grabbed the back of the American's head and pulled him into a searing kiss.

_Damn public decency to hell_, he remembered thinking.

* * *

><p>The next thing Arthur saw was the ceiling. He was on a huge bed, in a hotel room that must have been Alfred's room, because there laid his glasses on the nightstand, next to the alarm clock that twinkled 12:03. He was still disoriented, since the lamp seemed to shimmer a little at the edges, dimming into a soft, buttery shade. He draped an arm across his eyes, sighing out in defeat and wondering if Feliciano was panicking right now, maybe even calling the police…<p>

Arthur felt someone's lips on his, pressing in gently as if asking for entry. Arthur thought he must be delirious, for he could hear himself chuckling and slurring, "I should be studying some more…I have a quiz tomorrow…"

"What is it on?" Alfred's spirited, boyish voice had toned to a huskier pitch, laced with want and amusement at the same bloody time. "Do enlighten me."

"A load of bollocks," he murmured thoughtlessly. "Average displacement and something or the other about thermodynamics…I never quite got to that page…"

If Alfred was surprised he didn't show it. More kisses along his ear to his throat, and Arthur could feel one hand unbuttoning his clothes. It didn't feel quite as invasive as it had with Francis (or perhaps he was just too hammered to care, that must be it), as Alfred trailed down to his torso, where Arthur had gotten a small tattoo of a single bird wing during another of his Situations. He must be mumbling like a basket case, giggling quietly in the most random of times and unwittingly urging Alfred on the whole time.

"Angel…"

Alfred's voice was low, but it was enough to bring Arthur back to reality. Alfred didn't know he was Arthur without his glasses; he was letting the American hold him while Alfred thought he was a multi-million model who was paid pounds of cash for each photo shoot. In a way, it was lying, but what good would it do if Arthur told him the truth?

"…why do you seem so familiar?"

Alfred moved back to his jaw line, and Arthur allowed himself to open his eyes and stare into a pool of cornflower blue, sky blue, cerulean blue, whatever it was. Arthur was a sucker for blue eyes, and he knew it. Mr. Naked Man, the person whom he had slept with, had blue eyes, too, but they were dull and somewhat vacant. Alfred's mouth collided with his, and Arthur slid one foot out of his boot and wrapped his leg around the American's waist.

"First Law of Thermodynamics…" Arthur said at length. "Mechanical work can be derived from a body only when that—" He hiccupped. "—only when…only…I can't recall…"

"That would be the Second Law," Alfred countered, pushing back to look at the Brit with some degree of surprise.

"And how the hell would you know that?"

"I do have other things to do than drinking champagne out of frosted glasses."

"Never would've guessed." Arthur suppressed a yawn and let his eyes slip close. "Imagine that on the tabloids."

Alfred paused, seeming startled. "What are you saying?"

"No idea…" Arthur huffed and turned on his side, curling up into a comfortable position. Truthfully, he could care less what happened next, all he wanted to do was sleep. He estimated that tomorrow he would remember this day as a blur, and his little masquerade as Angel the model would end. "Mm…what happened to your hand?" he asked, half-unconscious.

Alfred's palm was wrapped in white linen, the cloth scratchy against Arthur's cheek.

"It's from a couple days ago," he said. "From helping someone…"

From when Alfred had scraped his hand on the pavement landing on the thief, how could he forget? "You do seem like the type to play hero."

"I don't have to pretend," Alfred pouted, running his hands through Arthur's hair. "I am one."

"Do you only 'help' pretty ladies pick up their dropped papers?" Arthur tested.

"Heroes help everyone," he said simply, as if that explained all.

"Real heroes don't exist." Not for him, anyways. No one helped him when someone had stolen his backpack and scattered his notebooks all over the campus back in secondary school. People fought with each for self-gain; what Alfred considered to be a hero would be counted as a fool by others.

"You just haven't met one yet," Alfred countered, his hands slipping away as he reached for his glasses.

"You know, if I were still sane I would've punched you in the nose the moment I woke up. Then throw up all over your shirt. Then report you for being a sex offender, along with the frog."

Alfred laughed again. Arthur liked the sound of it.

"Why did you look for me?"

The American had gotten up to retrieve his laptop. "Look for you?"

"Unless you just got bored being surrounded by well-endowed models and decided to hit on me…"

"Oh…" Alfred plopped back down on the mattress, waiting for the computer to warm up. "I thought you were the person I helped last time."

They were silent for a while, Arthur's heartbeats trailed by the pounding in his head. He exhaled.

"Thank you for bringing me here. And for not being a complete wanker."

Alfred threw him a meaningful look. "How do you know I won't just jump you right now?"

"Because you said it yourself."

"What did I say?" Alfred pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"Heroes help everyone."

After all, he would recall nothing when he woke up. He might as well have dreamed the entire conversation. And if this was a drunken hallucination (a damn good one at that), it wouldn't hurt to blabber. Because tomorrow he wake up on his ratty old bed, reading his ratty old notes 'til kingdom come, and sitting in the corner of the Physics classroom by himself as he took the quiz, wondering if he could ever relive that half-remembered dream. Whatever Alfred had said next became distant, and Arthur fell into a deep, empty sleep.

* * *

><p>Arthur sighed deeply, burrowing himself deeper into what he thought was a very warm pillow until he felt it rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. There and then his eyes snapped open, quickly followed by a dull, aching pain in the back of his head, a familiar aftermath that happened in most of his Situations. Yesterday was murky, and most of his memories ended at the part where he downed the drink Alfred bought him…<p>

Alfred.

Oh God.

He was in Alfred's hotel room, sleeping in Alfred's bed, on Alfred himself who, although shirtless, (thankfully) had on his pants. Arthur pawed at his own chest, gasping out silently in relief upon discovering that he had not shed his own clothes. The American's arm was like a dead weight on Arthur's shoulders, and he had to carefully wriggle out, in case Alfred woke up, because then he really had no clue what he'd do. But Alfred slept like a rock; in fact, the building could be crumbling and Alfred wouldn't give a damn. They didn't have sex, he was pretty certain, unless his blinding hangover was somehow overshadowing the supposed pain in his backside. He brushed his bangs back, seeing a faint shower of sparkles drifting off. Great. So they decide to come off now.

Arthur hadn't thought to wear contacts, but added with the woozy aftershock of this morning, the edges of every object seemed to look fuzzy. The digital clock gleamed green against the washed-white sunlight streaming through the seams of the draperies: _8:46_.

Arthur had Physics class in less than fifteen minutes. He had a goddamn _quiz_ that he'd been studying a week for, with the exception of yesterday.

His pocket still held Alfred's keys, and he hurriedly withdrew it and left it on the counter, pausing for a bit when he saw his phone next to the clock. He couldn't remember when he'd taken it out, but dash it all, he was going to be late for the first time in his life—him, Arthur Kirkland, teacher's pet in all his classes.

On top of that, he didn't know where he was. Hopping into his boots and pulling on the coat Feliciano bought for him at Lovino's store, Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when Alfred pulled him down by his wrist, giving him a very thorough kiss on the mouth at the exact time his cell phone began to beep frantically (or was it a beep? He couldn't quite tell, not with his head feeling fuzzy and every noise coming out warbled).

"Leaving so early?" he whispered against Arthur's lips. Their eyes locked briefly, and for a second Arthur thought Alfred was sad to see him go, which was preposterous. He probably had another girlfriend waiting once Arthur stepped out the door.

"I have cla—ah…a meeting—" He winced when Alfred sucked on his neck. Arthur pushed back and answered his phone, "Hello?"

"_Arthur!" _Feliciano sounded positively panicked. _"Where are you? I couldn't find you last night and I thought you'd been mugged, but Francis told me he saw you leaving with Alfred—"_

"I-I'm fine, Feliciano," Arthur replied, glancing cautiously at Alfred. "Look, I'm not sure where I am right now—"

"The Dorchester," Alfred offered helpfully.

"That means...Park Lane. I can catch a cab and—"

"_Oh, okay then! I'm talking with Francis, too, I gave him your backpack and all. He's coming your way right now!" _

"You _what_?"

Alfred snapped the phone shut carelessly, sliding it back into Arthur's back pocket. "Do you have to go?"

"You—" Arthur whipped around. "You twit! I was talking with someone important!"

"Skip your meeting and stay here," he coaxed, looping an arm around Arthur's waist and dragging him down. "You're not leaving when you look _so good_ right now—"

He must be acting on impulse, but his patience had snapped. Arthur, finding that he couldn't overpower Alfred by mere strength, turned around and slapped him.

"_If you must know_," Arthur hissed, "I _especially_ hate people like you. Self-centered rich brats riding on their parent's coattails. I don't care whatever I'd said yesterday, but I _don't_ have to do as you say." He took his moment and fled, ignoring Alfred's shouts behind him. He was shouting at Angel, not him. He was Arthur Kirkland. He was a university student, not some empty-headed celebrity caught up in scandals and rumors and a fling that wasn't based on love.

When he stepped outside the building, he could see a blond leaning next to a sleek, black sedan, lighting his cigarette with a practiced hand. He looked up in realization as Arthur strode over and opened the door for the Brit.

"Welcome aboard, _mon lapin_," Francis smiled. "How did you find the night with Jones?"

"Just take me to the university, frog. My class starts at nine." Arthur puffed into his glove, looking at his lap as the car lurched forward.

"Bad evening, I presume. But this was expected, spending the night with such an uncultured American fool—" He stopped mid-way. "You are crying, Arthur."

"What?" Arthur rubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Lovino must've been using a Sharpie for makeup, since there were no smears. "I'm not, you wanker."

Francis sighed. "Your bag is in the backseat." He smacked his lips as he snuffed out his cigarette. "If you don't mind me asking—"

"I do mind you asking."

"Do let me finish a sentence, _mon cher_. If you are not too busy this afternoon, would you like to accompany me for a cup of coffee?"

Arthur didn't speak, and Francis tapped the wheel in resignation. "Should I turn on this street—"

"I'm not going to dress up."

"Pardon?"

The Brit refused to meet his gaze.

"I'm not going wear anything fancy for you," Arthur said tonelessly. "I'm not your doll—"

"I wouldn't want you any other way." Francis leaned back, giving a small smile. "What is so funny, _mon cher_?"

"Belt up." Arthur stared out the window, watching the passers-by down the sidewalk. "Thank you, Francis."

"For what?"

The car stopped at the entrance of the university; early morning students stared at Arthur, the girls giggling nervously amongst each other; clueless guys whistled at Arthur's backside. He gripped his bag and slung it over his shoulders.

"You're still a frog, but I guess I thought of you wrongly, that's all. Thank you for the ride—"

Francis leaned in and barely touched his lips on Arthur's ear.

"I will pick you up at three," he said gently.

"Sod off."

But even Arthur himself could hear the smile in his own voice.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Time for AAN! Thanks to all that reviewed and faved and alerted! ;A; School's been preventing me from answering to your reviews, but I will try my best this time! Oh and I made up the addresses, hurhur.

Sorry about the sap. I think I was in a bad/stressed mood when I wrote the sappy parts, 'cause I wanted a little more happy endings since my day had been fairly crappy. XD

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>The nib of Arthur's pen tapped the paper in frustration, his left hand burrowing itself into an ashy-yellow mess of glittered locks and trying to soothe a periodic pounding in his head back down. It was about nine thirty in the morning, he was in a classroom of over thirty people, and he swore he would <em>not<em> violently vomit all over his quiz then pass out on it, as God be his witness. Arriving to class five minutes late was already an embarrassment, but arriving to class in heels and makeup and some rather visible bruises (which he found out about too late, when he noticed two female students giggling and leering around his neck) just made it even more obvious that he'd either gotten stoned last night, or laid, or both. Now, if the victim hadn't been him and were instead one of the guys from the "popular" crowd, the class wouldn't have been as shocked and would've regarded the scene as amusing.

But this was Arthur Kirkland, who did not even remotely fit into the definition of "popular", according to the rest of the university, showing up in school fashionably late in in-season heeled boots (with emphasis on _heeled_) and a wardrobe that most people would die for. Of course, he wished he hadn't drank so much the previous night and that he hadn't woken up on top of a shirtless Alfred and that he hadn't needed the frog to chauffer him to school and drop him off right in the front (where, first of all, one was not supposed to park), but what could he do about it? Most of all, he hoped that Alfred and his brother weren't going to visit the school today; what were the odds, anyways?

As he crawled and struggled his way to number six, the final problem (_thank goodness_), a voice hit him in the back of the head, along with a fuzzy, disorientated voice that scarily resembled his own, going, "Heroes help everyone." Had he said that to Alfred yesterday? Just exactly what had he done last night? And why, oh, why, did he ever believe that he was remotely able to understand physics problems? His pen pecked the corner of the page more intently, as if by stabbing the paper he would soon reach some God-given epiphany and the rest of the quiz would proceed smoothly like he'd been born to solve momentum equations.

The epiphany didn't come, and number six remained blank. Instead, all he could remember at the moment was Alfred's ridiculous, glass-shattering voice proclaiming more nonsense about heroes, and his lower tones breathing at his ear and coaxing Arthur to stay, because_ you're not leaving when you look so good right now_—

For the first time in his life, Arthur left a classroom without turning in a completed exam.

* * *

><p>By noon, Arthur's grand entrance to the school had spread across campus through some questionable sources but, unfortunately for the late-comers, Arthur had long changed back into his regular sweater and jeans and glasses, leaving the others to wonder if that person in the morning was really him. Because, if they really thought about it, it couldn't really be Arthur <em>Kirkland, <em>could it?

The exact moment the hands of the clock stroke three, Arthur's last class of the day ended. And his pocket began to sing. But he didn't notice it at first. Because his pocket didn't _sing_.

After thirty seconds or so, he began to realize that heads were turning to him in questioning, and that as the chatter died down in the classroom the sound seemed to be emitting from his pants. He stuck his hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone, and the muffled music blasted in his face, as if mocking him.

His cheeks colored immediately as he answered the call, certain that his ringtone had originally been a quiet succession of beeping and not of some guy belting out unintelligible tunes. "Hello?"

"_Ah, _Angleterre_!" _The voice was too accented, too suggestive, too _French_._ "I had feared that the press would've gotten to you by now_!"

"Bonnefoy—" Arthur turned to the side, hiding his face and hissing vehemently into the phone (because being on the defensive was the only way to protect his dignity from such a person), "Listen, frog, I don't know if you have short-term memory loss or if your IQ is too low to remember anything besides sex, but my name is Arthur—"

"_Oh, _mon cher_, I understand perfectly well that you are called Arthur. But your country's people, they are all so stuffy, not unlike yourself, I thought I could just refer to you as _Angleterre_, _non_? By the way, are you offering_?"

"Am I offering what?"

"_Sex_."

"If I see your face again, I will slap you until you die. And then I will slap you some more."

"_My, my, Arthur, I didn't know you were that type of person. I do apologize for labeling you as stuffy_—"

He sighed in exasperation, painfully aware of the incessant staring from the side.

"What do you want, Francis?"

Chuckling came from the other end.

"_You have already forgotten your promise to me for coffee_?" It wasn't an inquiry, it was a statement. A blunt accusation that jabbed its froggy finger at Arthur in what would've been a flirtatious manner if Francis hadn't meant for it to be so obvious.

Something clicked in Arthur's head.

"Coffee…now?" he whispered.

"_You wound me so, _Angleterre," Francis said bemusedly._ "What a shame that someone with so much l'amour as I would have to be tied with such a fickle lover_—"

"I am _not_ in anyway your lover," he bit out icily. "And I didn't forget, I was merely preoccupied—"

"_Is that so? Busy with your studies, I believe_?"

"Yes!"

"_And not daydreaming about Jones_?"

"Yes!—I mean, no!" He groaned, closing his eyes for a brief moment—just to allow himself a fleeting second of wishing that the conversation hadn't somehow taken this course. "I don't know what you're talking about. I am sitting here with a minor hangover and it's a miracle I haven't thrown up all over the table by now, and you are not making it any better. What do you want, anyways?"

"_I will tell you that in good time, _mon cher_. But first things first, I am standing next to a grey wall with a bulletin that has papers advertising…let's see, 'Software Design' internships. Should I turn left or right_?"

"Should you—what?"

"_Ah, there you are, _Angleterre_, I can see you! You are the one in the green sweater and glasses, am I right?"_

Fearfully, begging silently to God or whoever was upstairs, Arthur's gaze panned across the classroom and saw the Frenchman, standing right at the door with two cups of what must be coffee and a bouquet of roses (roses, for goodness sakes, the man was holding _roses_) as if he were trying to be as morbidly flashy and conspicuous as possible. He wasn't a girl; in fact, whatever the bleeding hell was he to do with a bunch of flowers? Feliciano would probably find something useful to make of them, using some Japanese flower arranging skills he'd saw from a friend and learned from the Internet to put them in a vase nicely; or perhaps, dry them out and make a dozen pressed bookmarks that he'd stick in every textbook he saw. But there was something utterly and adorably lame about Francis bringing flowers along with coffee, because that just seemed like such a Francis thing to do—

But whether if Arthur was correct in Francis indeed having a short-term memory, or if he couldn't contain his l'amour and French-ness or something, he was blowing kisses and giving actual kisses to whoever (and that included both guys and girls, for Francis was never one to be picky about something as trivial as gender, Arthur thought drily) would deign to allow it. Arthur pursed his lips and shoved his textbooks and papers into his bag, slinging it over his shoulders as he strode down the steps bitterly. By now, students were beginning to realize that this man was Francis Bonnefoy—the oh-so-famous-designer from Paris, one of the stars featured in their Vogue magazines, and not to mention a _total god in bed, just look at him, Ann_—and half the female population began to converge around him as a piranha would its prey.

Arthur had just nearly made it to the door when Francis's arm extended and gripped his wrist, reappearing from the crowd (and smelling of three different types of perfume) but still smiling between apologetic words here and there to counter the disappointed protests; Arthur looked back in mostly surprise, especially when the roses were pushed into his arms and the hand that had caught him started to tug and lead him away from the classroom and shocked expressions, down the hallway, and out to the campus.

And just for the briefest moment, as he allowed Francis to take him away from the staring, incredulous eyes, Arthur thought that he saw Alfred, standing in a group of tall, imposing male students, some of whom Arthur knew to be from influential families a.k.a. the rich brats. But it couldn't be him, because Alfred must still be in his fancy hotel room and drinking champagne and bathing in money and luring beautiful, deluded women into his bed as a pastime; it must've been some other boy with golden hair and glasses and blue eyes that resembled him so—

Said person noticed him gawking and looked right back at him, his eyes widening in recognition.

Oh. So it _was_ Alfred.

But before the American had a chance to say anything, Francis turned a corner and Alfred's face vanished behind a wall.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes, that was about right. Arthur thought it to be ten minutes after Francis shoved the flowers at him that he realized how many people had been in the classroom, and how he should be panicking about his poor, already-fractured reputation, not sitting under a tree on some bench and blowing on his coffee (which he really didn't like, for all intents and purposes, though he didn't say so), pretending as if Francis had not led him hand-in-hand out of the school like they were sixteen and eloping.<p>

Francis, tasting his coffee and standing upright (to spare his ten-thousand-dollar designer pants the indecency of the bench or what, Arthur didn't know), regarded Arthur with a curious expression.

"You are quiet, _Angleterre_."

"Would it kill you to stop calling me that?" he snapped.

"The frown is quite unbecoming on you."

"Go to hell, Francis."

"Don't be so inconsiderate," Francis replied drily. Arthur had set the roses on his lap, unconsciously running his hands along the petals even as he cursed at the Frenchman; he had bought to on a whim, when he'd spied it in a floral shop from across the street. Originally, he'd thought it to be interesting to see Arthur's flustered face, stammering out insults and other obscenities, but Francis was wondering now if this gesture—Arthur unknowingly feeling the flowers, as if it were a move he were accustomed to—meant that the Brit did like the present. Or maybe he would rather keep it so that he could batter Jones with it, he could never tell with Arthur, not with that sour look forever glued onto his face. "Is there something on your mind?"

He was waiting for the usual, furious rebukes (the ones where Arthur would turn bright red and lash out with all his English-ness, "It's none of your sodding business what I'm thinking about. And keep your hands to your self before I shove them up your arse—"), but Arthur seemed to be pondering.

"I lied to him, you know."

Francis quirked an eyebrow. _So he is still moping about the American fool._

"How so?" he said, leaning on the edge of the bench as he tried not to stare too obviously at Arthur's hands. He had long fingers, his hands rather delicate and fluttering like a pale butterfly, before settling down gingerly on a rose.

Arthur glared at his lap, sucking on his bottom lip a bit.

"He thinks my name is Angel. I thought he was just playing around at first, pretending not to know who I am, but he really was that daft," Arthur said flatly, looking up at Francis. "How different can I possibly be by just changing outfits?" He wrung his hands in exasperation. "It's not as if—as if I've gotten plastic surgery overnight—or…"

_But it's not exactly about the outfits_, Francis mused silently, _and there is no way anyone can mistake those eyebrows, except for Jones and his dim perceptive powers. _Arthur wasn't bad-looking, but on the whole he wasn't built like, per se, some Adonis-Tom Cruise combination emitting sex rays of epic proportions. The Arthur he had saw last night was glowing, radiating confidence and charm as Francis watched the Brit grab the back of Alfred's head and smash their faces together. The real Arthur hid behind glasses and tried to blend in with the furniture by wearing grey, stringy sweaters picked up from a discreet corner of a clearance store. What a shame it was that he could not manage to get to him before Alfred took the liberty of whisking Arthur away bridal-style, just as he collapsed into incoherence.

"I think you are lovely either way," he said conversationally, and as the sentence rolled off his tongue he was surprised by how honest it came out. He hadn't meant for them to have an impact; after all, it wasn't as if he were proclaiming Arthur as the beauty of the universe or if he'd pulled out a sugared line likening the Brit to a rose or something akin to a "star in the evening, lighting up the emptiness within my soul". No. (Although _that_ particular line he used rather often, he would grudgingly admit; interchangeably with "you are everything, my dear heart, my angel, my life, etc. etc."). He was Francis Bonnefoy. He invented love. Hell, if it came down to that he could claim that he invented sex and no one would oppose.

But all it took were those seven words and Arthur's face brightened right up to his ear. He opened and pursed his mouth, uncertain whether to shoot back a nasty phrase or to not answer at all.

"I suppose…" He hesitated, then ended lamely, "I'm flattered." And for the silence that trailed afterwards, Francis couldn't help but think that in that moment Arthur had appeared quite unhappy.

"Do you know what we should do, _mon cher Angleterre_?" he commented, bending lower so that he would be eye-level with Arthur.

He answered irritably, "If you are going to spout something vulgar about lovemaking or the likes, then—"

"Actually, no. I was going to say a walk with me, but if you prefer—"

Arthur chuckled humorlessly, but he seemed to be thinking.

"You'd want to do that?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement.

"It would be an honor if Your Majesty said yes."

He pushed Francis on the arm and rolled his eyes; he then glanced away, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sure you're busy enough as it is, Mr. Bonnefoy. I think I should take my leave."

"Without a farewell kiss?" he teased, squashing down the initial disappointment bubbling up just before he let it show.

Arthur clutched the roses to his chest, scowling his best.

"In your dreams, you sodding git."

"Then it shall be a very excellent dream indeed," Francis agreed, nodding solemnly for effect. "I will see you around then, _Anglet_—."

Perhaps it was his own mind that had him imagining Arthur sighing and flushing a deeper scarlet, but just before he could step away the blond suddenly sprang up and just barely pressed one side of his face to Francis, muttering very, very quietly, "Thank you for listening."

Francis was taken by surprise, but he pulled back and laced his fingers around Arthur's gloved ones, letting his lips linger against the other's forehead for a fraction of a second. Arthur gave a breathless laugh, shuddering as he drew back nervously.

"You must think I'm ridiculous, thinking and thinking about something that will never make a difference in my life." He laughed again, out of embarrassment. "All my life, I've only wanted one thing."

"What is it that you want?"

For the first time, Arthur smiled, as if recalling a fond memory.

"I used to want to write. I'd have these notebooks, and in it would be stories that I'd made up and some of them were things I'd been wishing for, but didn't realize at the time…" His eyes widened. "I-I'm sorry, I'm rambling. Um…thank you. For today."

Arthur tried to wriggle his hands away, but Francis held on, determined.

"What is it that you'd wished for?" he asked.

"I—it's been a long time, I was just writing a load of bollocks back then—"

"Don't lie, Arthur. I know perfectly well you remember."

"Let go of me!" He looked to the side helplessly, conscious of the passers-by whispering at them as they walked past. "Why is it so bloody important to you anyways?" he hissed desperately. "Why would _you_ even want to know anything about me?"

"Because it sounds to me that you're afraid of something, and you're hiding yourself because something is wrong—"

At the last jerk, Arthur managed to wrench free and he glared at Francis defiantly, clutching his wrist protectively.

"You want to know what I'm afraid of?" His eyes flashed murderously, but his upper lip trembled and shattered the metaphorical armor he'd been trying to piece together. "I'm afraid of change. I am afraid of—of people leaving, and my life being different. And I'd write over and over again in that damned notebook, that I wanted everything to just freeze. That's what I fucking want, but it's impossible." He shut his eyes, pressing back his anger and strangling down his voice. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry today isn't turning out as well as you'd hoped. I don't know how you're living your life, but this is reality. I can't pretend to be one of you, because I am just a _normal_ _person_."

They stood there, Arthur cradling his forehead as it jabbed with a dull thud, and Francis unable to bring himself to leave. Arthur had bottled up everything, stifled down and swallowed his bitterness, knowing very clearly that he'd hoped for too long with too little results. He stayed as still as he could, just kneading his temple as if to snuff out a fire, as if he were drained of energy but knew better than to do something as useless and childish as crying.

"Do you know what you really need, Arthur?" he prompted patiently, stepping a little closer.

"I don't need anyt—"

"You need love." Francis raised his arm, interrupting Arthur's next words; the other plucked the still-full coffee cup out of Arthur's hands while he was distracted and deposited it in a nearby trash bin. "Say what you will later, you can curse at my face and behind my back until your words become tangible and eventually kill me, but it's just what I believe. Now, I'm going to take you to the car, and we will go to a café where I can get you your English tea and you and I can have a proper afternoon, as an apology from me for prying. And I will bring you back to the university and hopefully by then you will have agreed to another afternoon with me, preferably within the following days. How does that sound?"

After a heavy silence, Arthur exhaled one final time, somewhat tiredly like he'd given up and decided to not berate the Frenchman any further. But he nodded, and that was all that mattered to Francis.

* * *

><p>The rest of the afternoon had gone well. In fact, it had been too perfect. Francis had steered the conversation away from Alfred and anything fashion-related (Arthur concluded that he must've been trying very hard), and Arthur had ended up talking about his studies and even accidently let slip a little part about his family. He'd never seen anyone listen so intently to him before, maybe with the exception of Feliciano.<p>

And in the most clichéd sense possible, he couldn't remember another time when he'd been so relieved. He didn't have to pretend.

Despite what Francis had promised, he was sent back to the university when it was nearly dark and the campus deserted. And as Alfred suddenly burst out the front door and down the steps, Arthur's first instinct was to sidestep behind a tree. Oh, he knew it was ridiculous, but he felt that he had a legitimate reason to hide. If Alfred had saw him, he would've most definitely waved and called him over, going on about him being the one who saved Arthur from a certain purse-snatcher until he saw the similarities between Angel and him and realize that he _was_ Angel. But another part of him wanted to follow Alfred and just check and see what he was doing.

Of course Arthur didn't. He knew his limits, but when his phone rang and his weird ringtone started to sing without warning in his pants again, his heart felt like it was trying to detach itself and hop away. He couldn't risk letting Alfred know that he was here, so he answered the phone in the smallest tone he could.

"_Angel? Is that you?"_

Forget about hearts jumping away and leaving him; it took all his willpower to not fling the phone away into the grasses on the spot. Maybe he could play dumb, that seemed to work relatively well for Alfred.

He gave the tiniest of coughs and decided to stall for time. "Who is this?"

A crackle came from the other end, then, "_This is Alfred. From today._"

_Of course you are. _Arthur stole a glance at Alfred, a couple yards away, turning back just in time before the American saw him. But what did he want?

"This…this isn't the best time," Arthur explained awkwardly. "I'm in the middle of a…of a…a session."

"_Please don't hang up. I've been trying to reach you all afternoon," _came the reply, full of static and pleading. "_I want to talk about today."_

"Um…maybe I should apologize for striking you. Let's forget about it and we can go our separate ways, and uh, I don't know how you got this number—"

"_I asked Lovino's agency, but they gave me the wrong number. Then I saw Feliciano at my col—I saw him around and asked him since he was at the party yesterday_."

Someday, Arthur was going to throttle Feliciano.

"That's great. But if you could do me a favor and delete this number so we can all be happy, alright—"

"_But I don't want to do that. I want to apologize for this morning."_

"You—" Arthur deadpanned. "You what?"

"_I want to see you again"_

"Ex—excuse me?"

Alfred didn't make it sound like he was open for discussions.

_"Meet me tomorrow on North Side at five? It's close to the University, I'll meet you there."_

"I'm not going to meet you," Arthur accentuated, doing his best to convince himself at the same time.

"_But why not_?" he whined. The actual Alfred was pacing back and forth, and even from his spot Arthur could see his dejected expression.

"Because…because…" He couldn't find a good excuse without making himself sound like a bitch by going, "Because I don't want to."

"_Look, I'm not going to do anything. I just want to talk. Just give me ten minutes."_

"I don't see why you absolutely must," he finally said, frowning. "Name one good reason and _maybe_ I will think about it."

The answer shot back almost immediately, and Arthur wished he hadn't added the second line, "_Because you're different_."

"I'm different," Arthur repeated blandly. "Good to know."

"_No, I mean, it's because of something you said_." Alfred stopped in his tracks, placing one hand on the back of his neck. "_I've been thinking about it last night_."

"W-what did I say?" _This is it. I'm going to die. He knew all along. _

"_You said that I was a hero before you fell asleep_."

"I said that?"

"_Well, not exactly. But you were implying it_."

Arthur gulped, his heartbeat pounding in his ear as his next words followed in a whisper, "What happened then?"

"_You fell into a drunken stupor and passed out on my bed, woke up in the morning, and slapped me_."

"Right." He wetted his lips, wondering if he could just snap his phone shut. "But what do heroes have to do with anything?"

"_You said real heroes don't exist_."

_So what's your point? _"Okay…"

"_And I thought that _I_ could be your hero_!"

"You—" Arthur sputtered, face as red as bricks, "You are the single, biggest idiot I have ever known in my entire life!"

"_So give me ten minutes tomorrow, or at least five, because I really, really want to start over_." The pleading in his voice was so bald Arthur's anger started to seep away. He didn't sound like that self-concerned, pompous brat that he had been early in the morning; it was as if by some miraculous transformation Alfred had changed back into that person he'd met on the streets, obsessed with the strange notion of being a hero and chasing down purse-snatchers down random alleyways.

("I would think it to be a relief if everything stopped," Arthur had sighed to Francis, leaning over the bridge and watching the cars below shoot past as blurs of neon. "Right now. Imagine if the stars never changed."

"But have you ever wondered," Francis had commented gently, "that if everything were constant then the unhappy would stay miserable?"

"Then I'd just choose a single happy day," he'd replied. "One that I can relive over and over again. But," he stopped, his expression dazed while the the colors below reflected in his glasses and on the emerald of his eyes, "nothing is constant, after all." He gave Francis a crooked smile. "_C'est la vie_, I believe it is. What a dreadful language, I can never pronounce it properly."

"You do well enough," Francis had nodded, amused. "_C'est la vie_, indeed.")

He kept quiet for a full ten seconds, but the moment Arthur had hesitantly uttered yes he knew he was making a mistake. He heard Alfred's excited shout from behind him, so childlike and foolishly glad as he bounded back into the university; and for a strange, warped moment he felt that happiness, as if he were walking on a cloud.

But as far as walking on clouds went, one wrong step and Arthur knew he'd come tumbling down.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Wah, it's been a while! Yes, I am still working on the sidestory for SOM (it's a little less than halfway done, but it keeps getting pushed back due to school). I get a lot more inspiration for AAN, but I'll still be working on SOM. ^-^;;

**Notes**:-I don't know when the next SOM chapter will come out, but I'll just put a note here (and in the new SOM chapter again) that **karapuui** has made more lovely CTD/PTP profiles. Watch me stare at them in awe; go check them out! Thank you so much!  
>-Another The Little Prince reference because I like it.<br>-I'm trying to balance out the FrUK and USUK, and by the looks of it, it seems that the USUK parts will start seeping in after this chapter.  
>-Probably a lot of spgrammatical errors or DM linked words (or OOC, gasp) but I will fix it when I have the chance.  
>-Added more sap before I epic study my eyes out for science. Oh my God.<p>

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>"Class dismissed. Turn in your papers on my desk before you leave the room!"<p>

Arthur heard tiresome sighs as students stood up, stretching away stiffness and regaining their enthusiasm as they pestered their neighbors about a party or whatnot, tittering in high-pitched voices which Arthur found to be endlessly irritating. He was back in his regular outfit: a sweater, faded to a mousy grey, his old glasses, but the jeans were new, mostly because Feliciano had insisted (why he had even listened to Feliciano, Arthur was still pondering about that).

He maneuvered his way down the steps, essay in hand, and placed it on top of the stack on his professor's table. He had finally finished within the last few days, a five-paged impromptu assignment based on _Pride and Prejudice_. It wasn't too difficult, since he would have to admit it was one of his favorite books, with all its eighteenth century quirks, but the professor was a difficult man, if not an otherwise excellent English teacher. He was unmarried and probably around his late-fifties, as far as Arthur could tell, which might've been a reason for his ever-changing moods; he clearly enjoyed arguing with students, looking as if he relished wining the conversation each time. And he also had a strange habit of clasping his hands together whenever he became impatient, as if his knuckles hurt and he was trying to snuff out an old, unseen ache. In the two years that Arthur had known him, he'd learned that nothing was ever good enough for the professor, no matter the hours of relentless typing on the computer on Arthur's part.

The professor caught Arthur's eye as he came down and suddenly stopped him.

"Except for you, Arthur," he said. "I'd like to talk to you after class, if that would be alright."

Arthur must've looked surprised, because the man waved his hands dismissively.

"No, you are not in trouble. I only wanted to speak with you for a minute."

So Arthur waited until everybody else filed out of the room, clutching his bag as he watched the others leaving and unwittingly watching out for any signs of Alfred.

"Arthur."

He blinked, gathering his thoughts.

"Yes, Professor?"

He selected a packet from amongst his piles of papers, flipping through one with barely any checkmarks, contemplating as he drummed his fingers on the side of his desk. He held it in front of Arthur, revealing the paper to be his, marked with a "90" circled in red marker.

"Best score in the class," he said. (Arthur did his best to suppress the urge to reply, "Oh, really?") "And also the highest grade I have ever given a student. This was an assignment on the analysis of one character from the novel, is it not?"

"I believe so," Arthur said, perhaps a bit too obvious in displaying how uncomfortable he was.

"Do stop fidgeting," he snapped irritably, "I'm not going to kill you."

Which, Arthur thought, was a bit ironic, because the professor looked like he wanted nothing more than to snap Arthur in half. Something to that effect, anyways.

"I'm sorry."

"No, I know what students think of me," he said. "But we are not here to discuss this." He tapped the grade inquisitively. "Do you know why I gave you this score?"

So far, this felt like one of those impossible questions where there were no right answers, and anything Arthur said could blow up the entire conversation in little shreds.

"Because…because I approached the topic correctly?" It was a safe reply, but his professor only ruffled through the pages some more, not looking at Arthur.

"Ever the brilliant student, are you not, Arthur?" he said. "Always knowing exactly what to say." He handed the assignment to Arthur, his expression unreadable. "Out of a hundred and twenty students, I'd have to say yours was the most thought out response. It is a good, solid paper, very thorough; you've captured all the themes and elements of Elizabeth I've mentioned in lectures. This is an excellent essay, overall, but it is an empty essay."

"I-I'm not quite sure I understand…"

"You and I are not so different, Arthur," he said wryly. "We both crave perfection, whether it's writing or in our fellow colleagues, and in doing so we sometimes forget that imperfection is basically the whole point of literature. Maybe even life, but feel free to correct me on that. It's how human we are that makes people able to relate to us, which is—" The professor retreated behind his desk tiredly, arranging stacks of ungraded essays in no particular order. "—which is something I feel that you should not learn from me."

"Professor—?"

He gave Arthur a meaningful look behind his spectacles and cleared his throat.

"Let's skip the philosophies," he agreed, as if talking to himself. "I only wanted to let you know that because an old acquaintance of mine has been searching for an assistant. He manages a publishing house, works as an editor, and he's been running through a handful of rookies for the past year. But, and do tell me if I am horribly mistaken." He paused, lacing his fingers together and placing them on the table, smiling a fraction of an inch. "I think you to be fitting for the job. I will allow you some time to think it over," he added, offering Arthur a card. "But whenever you've decided you may call him."

"I—" He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you—"

"I hear the place is decent and the pay isn't bad. But just so you know," the professor interrupted drily, "he's not the easiest person to get along with."

"I understand," Arthur said. "Thank you for referring me, Professor."

He nodded and put his hands together, and up close Arthur could notice him rubbing his fourth finger, almost directly over a barely-there band of pale skin where a ring should've been.

"Well then, that's all I have to say. You are free to go." He made a hand gesture towards the door and called out, "Mr. Jones, is it? Come on in, I don't have all day. We need to talk about your new schedule…"

There was almost no time to react. The moment Arthur looked up he found himself gazing right at Alfred, who was standing at the far wall with a binder in his hands. Arthur stiffened as he quickly strode past the American, looking down at the ground as he made his way to the door. He could feel Alfred stare at him in incredulity at one point, almost as if he was to reach out and stop Arthur, but he hesitated. Arthur heard the footsteps move farther and farther away from him, and if it were not for his professor's voice saying his name he would've dashed out of the room.

"Arthur!" he said. The Brit flinched in response, and when he glanced back he caught sight of Alfred looking at him in recognition, eyes flashing behind glasses as he mouthed his name in questioning. "I know this may seem irrelevant, but do think about what I've said, will you?"

Arthur nodded thickly and turned his back to the two, because he knew perfectly well that Alfred was still looking at him as he walked out.

* * *

><p>"You've been looking at that paper for a long time, Arthur," Feliciano commented, tilting his head at Arthur.<p>

He sat cross-legged on his bed, drawing out yet another gallery of scenery for his class that would probably be later faxed to Lovino and become the inspiration for a new fashion collection. At least, that was what Arthur thought Feliciano usually did. But for now the Italian only carefully ripped out a fifth page from its pre-perforated lines in his sketchbook, laying each one side-by-side before he chose which one looked the most fitting to be taped on the far wall (which was a bit pointless, the way Arthur looked at it, because Feliciano could never come to a decision and would end up taping everything to the wall until he had no more space left whatsoever).

"You are very fortunate that I have other things on my mind besides strangling you for giving Bonnefoy my number," Arthur said blandly, turning a page in the essay his professor had returned to him and attempting (and failing) to find out what was wrong. But he couldn't concentrate, not with Feliciano about six feet away humming and the thought of Alfred finding out about him. He didn't know what to do. Arthur would've loved to hide in his room all day and pretend that he did not have to meet up with Alfred while masquerading as some fashion celebrity; in fact, he didn't want to meet Alfred at all. He was afraid of the moment when Alfred would see him as he truly is and look down on him.

But most of all, he was tired of disappointments. Of raised expectations because he wasn't anything special, that he didn't particularly stand out in any way. Wasn't that the only reason that drove him on to earn that scholarship? To become good enough so there would be no more dashed hopes?

"I really thought something had happened," Feliciano insisted vehemently. "I heard from Gilbert that someone had carried you out and I was going to call the police and I accidently slapped Ludwig when I was panicking but Ludwig said you were fine and that you could take care of yourself better than I could, whatever that meant." When Arthur threw him an unimpressed look, he pulled a face. "I could've just not bothered. But I did because I was worried." He busied himself with the sketches once more, murmuring, "The weather in London in so dull. Everyday the sky is the same color. And it's cold."

Arthur agreed, "You're right. The countryside is much better."

"You mean where you lived." Feliciano rolled on his stomach, looking at Arthur expectantly as he brushed a stray tuft of brown hair away from his eyes. "What's it like?" he asked curiously, in a tone the same as a child requesting a bedtime story.

"It's a small town," he said idly. Feliciano would be what everyone would consider 'special'. He was bright and bubbly and well-liked by all, whereas Arthur reserved and short-tempered; almost the exact opposite of Feliciano—and Alfred. "In our neighborhood everybody knew everyone else's business. My mum once told me that she'd wanted to live in those English cottages because of Jane Austen. So we had a garden in the back, you know, to complete her Jane Austen dream house, with all sorts of flowers we could find—peonies, violets, bluebells, and just one rosebush because she was never too fond of them. We'd have afternoon tea and sometimes, when it happened to not rain for once, we'd have tea outside, and she'd read a few pages aloud from Pride and Prejudice to me. That was her favorite book."

"It sounds lovely," Feliciano said, smiling benignly. "I'd like to visit someday. And you can come with me to Italy and I can take you to a million places and we'll eat gelato everyday."

Arthur sighed.

"I'd like that." Then he added as an afterthought, "I used to believe I could see fairies. And I could describe each one in detail, goodness—"

"And you don't now?"

Arthur blinked, nonplussed.

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't see fairies now?" Feliciano repeated, slower and enunciating each word.

"Of course not," he said. "I was a child. Fairies don't exist."

"Oh." Feliciano's tone was one of disappointment. "That's too bad."

"I think I was being ridiculous, honestly. It's been a while since I've been home," Arthur admitted, although rather crossly. He leaned back against his chair and gazed blankly at the ceiling. "I don't want to go back."

"How come?"

Arthur shrugged, as if it did not matter.

"I didn't have the greatest childhood ever, Feliciano. There are a lot of things I'd rather not remember that happened back home."

"Sometimes the littlest, most ridiculous things are the ones we hold closest to our hearts," he returned. "They're also the ones that leave us the most easily."

Arthur turned around, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes.

"Who told you that?"

"It's something I believe in," he replied simply, his pencil scratching back and forth against the notepad without ever pausing, "and what I think you should keep in mind."

Arthur wondered for a brief moment, thinking about what sort of person he'd turn into if he were to be like Feliciano, to be happy and carefree and sure of where his life was headed.

"What is it that you're drawing?" he said finally, rising from his seat and venturing towards the bed. "You've been working on that one for an awfully long time. Mind you, if you decided to paint _at_ _least_ do it on a table. I don't need you to spill watercolors on the sheets again." He leaned over Feliciano's shoulder, furrowing his brows at the Italian's artwork. "That's…"

It was a detailed picture of a person's profile, the character brooding over a window ledge with a grey cloud looming overhead, holding a bundle of roses that barely brushed below his chin. The only colors in the sketch were the eyes, a light green glint which gave his expression a faraway touch, his face and ashy-yellow hair, and the roses with their peculiar off-putting shade of magenta. Feliciano set his pencil by his side, looking at Arthur as if waiting for approval.

"It's you," he affirmed. "In the morning you were setting your roses in a vase and you suddenly stopped by the window to look outside. My professor wanted me to work with perspective, and he said I should practice drawing people, too, so…"

No doubt Feliciano, whether his professor had immorally high standards or if all student artists were this professional, was a master at glorifying the world as he saw fit. The Arthur on the picture looked too delicate, too perfect and doll-like with his gold lashes and curved lips, as if he'd break with a shove too brash if he happened to come to life. Nevertheless, he was vibrant, full of life and aglow with gentle pastel colors standing out behind a dull, flat sky.

As if he was someone special.

"It's…it's beautiful, Feliciano, but I don't look like this," he said softly. "I mean, I'm very flattered if you think I do, but…"

"That's not for you to decide, is it?" Feliciano chirped lightly. "I think this is exactly what you look like."

Arthur scowled half-heartedly and lowered his eyes at his portrait in wonder.

_What __does __it __mean __to __be __empty?_ he thought. _How __do __you __put __life __into __your __work?_

Feliciano barely looked up from his drawing.

"You tell me," he said.

Arthur hadn't realized he'd said it aloud.

His phone flashed a faint green at its place on the corner of the nightstand, a sight unseen as the Brit went back to his essay, the screen indicating a new text message from Francis Bonnefoy.

* * *

><p>The weather in London had always been bleak at this particular time of year, with what the occasional freezing rain and more often, the sea of umbrellas amongst the narrowest, most humid alleyways. Before Arthur had left the dorms, however, there had been a literal fleeting moment of sunshine that streamed through clouds as thick as blankets. Feliciano, within thirty minutes, had shoved most of his artwork on his table as an attempt to clean up, realizing soon afterwards that he had to join his brother at a certain hotel for dinner, and doggedly scrambled out with a hasty goodbye, leaving Arthur with a list of groceries that he was supposed to pick up. And of course Arthur had left the room without an umbrella, and of course he had forgotten his gloves and scarf, and of course as the fact that he had to meet with Alfred flew out of Arthur's mind the moment rain suddenly decided to return with an almost determined fierceness.<p>

He supposed at first he was used to London and its rain, and it wasn't until the wind picked up and water began rocket at him sideways did he take shelter in a nearby café (thus forcing him to purchase a very small cup of coffee, which Arthur still couldn't believe was the only thing they sold there, unless the day just decided for some reason that it wasn't going to be nice to him, he concluded).

He retreated to a couch in a dimmed corner, watching civilians march through the weather using umbrellas as shields through the dripping glass pane, bundled up in woolen jackets and mittens. This was one of those rare times when Arthur wished he didn't so stubbornly believe that being a proper English gentleman (which he definitely was, by the way) meant that he could brave through a storm like this as if he were some explorer treading in the jungle. The only thing he could do now was to wait out the rain, because being the clever gentleman that he was he'd forgotten to bring his phone, and there was no way he was going to waste money on a cab in this traffic. The other choice was to cover himself with newspapers and run like mad back to the university, but he figured that wouldn't look too gratifying. He'd get laughed to death, if he didn't slip and die first.

"_Angleterre_?"

Arthur looked at the voice and was greeted by a pair of blue eyes. His face warmed up, not because of seeing Francis, but because he was drinking out of a cup of cheap, low-grade coffee and his clothes were drenched and his hair damp and flattened and he knew he must look like a mess.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he said at last. "I thought you had your meeting thing with one of the other designers before she flew back to Paris."

"Not anymore," Francis said evenly, lifting Arthur's hand and pressing his lips to the other's knuckles with a sly expression. "She didn't want to leave her hotel in this weather, and almost all of the flights have been canceled. Didn't you get my message?"

"Message?" he repeated dumbly, then jerked his wrist away, rubbing the back of his hand on his jeans. "Oh, I, uh, forgot to bring my phone."

"Is that so," Francis said, lighting a cigarette as he looked outside the window. "I had been waiting near North Side for half an hour," he added as though as if blaming Arthur, blowing out a thin stream of grey smoke.

"Well, it's not my fault if you'd assumed I'd be there," Arthur answered testily and snatched the cigarette, snuffing it out in the process. "Really, I've no other reason to be at North Side, so you can stop being such a selfish idiot—"

"Really?" Francis turned to him, appearing surprised.

"Wha—what is that supposed to mean?" Arthur stammered out, taken aback by the Frenchman's sudden switch of mannerisms. "I wasn't at North Side, my dorms aren't even close to there."

"I see," he said at length, sounding partially relieved. "Then I was mistaken, I apologize." He glanced around and continued teasingly, "So what brought you here, _Angleterre_? Did _you_ assume that you'd meet me here?"

Arthur rolled his eyes briefly, bringing the brim of the coffee cup to his lips but did not down the drink. He'd never liked it.

"Oh, yes. I'd been waiting for a frog to show up for ages," he muttered. "What do you think? It's the bloody weather. It started to rain out of nowhere and I'm sitting here waiting it out while the closest grocery store is getting ready to close—" And then, as if to prove to Arthur that all hope really was lost, his stomach growled, and he was sure that everyone within a mile radius could've heard that. He had been too immersed in looking over that sodding essay all he'd eaten for lunch was a leftover scone. Arthur pressed back against the couch even further in embarrassment. "…I should go."

Francis did not hesitate to reach out and grasp the Brit's arm.

"I'll take you there," he said.

Arthur raised his eyebrow, letting out a sarcastic, unbelieving huff, "To where, the _store_?"

Francis nodded, and Arthur nearly burst out in real laughter at the sight of the other putting on such a serious expression.

"Why in the blazes do you want to come along?" he asked incredulously. "Oh, I know. You haven't stepped foot in a grocery store for fifty years because you're afraid the press would get to you while you're opening jars of canned frogs and sniffing them—"

"Don't flatter yourself, Arthur," he said, but Arthur could see a half smile hanging from his lips. He took the Brit's hand in his and led him out, inquiring, "Where is your umbrella?"

"I-I didn't bring it." He twisted his arm, attempting to wrangle free when he saw Francis shrugging off his overcoat. "What—what the hell are you doing?"

He grinned crookedly and draped the jacket over both of their heads.

"You really think I would do something indecent in public?" he said.

"Yes!"

"You think too little of me, _Angleterre_," he sighed, contemplating the rain splashing heavily to the pavement. "I parked my car down the block. If we run we could make it in time."

"You—what?" Arthur shot him a look. "Do you want me to trip and die, is that it—let go of me!"

As Francis's gloved hands closed about his, Arthur, despite all the furious insults thrown mercilessly at the Frenchmen, found himself following the other quite readily. Perhaps it was because he was, in a sense, stranded in the middle of London, and letting Francis drag him down the street was the result of an instinct. Or because his hands were numb and Francis's were really, really warm as somehow their fingers intertwined, and he thought he might even have felt grateful that he'd met Francis at such a time.

* * *

><p>One shopping trip later, Arthur had somehow ended up in Francis's flat, twelve floors up in one of the city's richest residential areas which happened to be surprisingly not far from Arthur's university. In fact, standing at the glass window and peering outside he could see, across the tear-stained glass, the park, dotted with slow-moving black circles that were umbrellas, and beyond that, the university. On the counter sat Arthur's groceries: a bag containing three packages of pasta, canned sauce (Feliciano had protested, but Arthur knew he'd make a mess if he actually bought tomatoes), and other miscellaneous items his roommate had asked for.<p>

Francis had given him a towel and offered a change of clothes, but there was no way Arthur was stripping in the frog's house. He gazed at the clouds as he dried his hair, wondering if it would look too bad if he took his things and just sneaked out right now, because he was hungry and he wanted to shower and he had no idea why he was here in the first place.

Arthur had assumed Francis, being a designer, would have contemporary photographs of naked women hanging on each wall and a rug made of bearskin or the likes, but despite the furniture looking like they were worth a million pounds a piece, there was something comfortable about the place. There was a mug on the kitchen counter underneath the hanging lights, along with piles of open magazines laying near a sketchbook. The carpet floor was a milky tan, the kitchen with pots and pans hanging overhead, complete with a wine rack. Francis had gone to change and so Arthur, with nothing else to do, wandered around, checking out paintings of beaches and ocean scenes until he noticed a bookshelf laden with novels.

Arthur looked at the framed photos on the coffee table. The first one was Francis, smiling broadly amidst a crowd of what the Brit thought were probably fellow designers. Arthur chose another one, squinting confusedly at the man in the picture because he bore an almost scary resemblance to Alfred, save for the wayward curl that hung lopsidedly on the side of his head and his chin-length locks. He was sitting on sand and gazing distractedly into the waves, while behind him stretched a beach made of monotonous white. Beyond that stood a cloudy blue sky and a hamlet, low and grey and slightly worn by ocean winds. If Feliciano had been here, he would've called it art. Arthur thought it looked lonely.

A hand landed on his right shoulder, and Arthur started, setting the picture down immediately. He couldn't read Francis's expression, but he felt the other's hand over his and untangling his fingers from the frame.

"See any you like?"

Arthur turned his head aside, knowing that he'd been caught.

"I didn't mean to pry—" Then he caught where Francis was looking; he was asking about the books. They all bore foreign titles. "Oh."

Francis picked a slim, yellowed book off the shelf and studied it for a second or so.

"_Le __Petit __Prince_. Have you heard of it?" he inquired.

"I know the plot of it," Arthur said, "but I don't read French rubbish." As soon as the words came out he knew it sounded too spiteful, too insulting without any intention to.

Francis only smiled.

"It's not rubbish," he said. "It was my mother's book."

"Oh," Arthur said again. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"These novels were hers, every single one. I've been meaning to show you this."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow as Francis flipped through the book. The rain had started up outside, starting with first a slight drizzle, hitting the glass like little arrows.

"Do you stay in London often?" Arthur asked.

"Half the year," Francis said, the pages flying through plainly colored sketches of a snake, a little boy, a curiously-drawn planet, and a rose encased in glass. "The main office in Paris I have people looking over it while I am gone." He paused at the last picture and took Arthur's hand.

Arthur flinched instinctively, drawing inwards and throwing Francis a dirty look.

"I'm not a girl," he said, and it felt like the millionth time those words had fell from his lips. "Whatever little tricks you are planning on employing are unfortunately not going to work on me."

"I never said you were," Francis said soothingly. "And as for tricks—" He raised both arms as if proving his innocence. "—I have none. So rest assured." Noticing Arthur's displeased expression, he shrugged. He then walked into the kitchen, placing two mugs on the countertop and opened the pantry. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please," Arthur muttered.

"Ah, just as I'd guessed," he mused. "Next thing you know you'll be living here and we'll have matching toothbrushes—"

Arthur rolled his eyes and slid into a booth.

"There's not enough money in the world to make me live here," he scowled. "I've only known you for a little more than a day and you're already deciding my life?"

"A year, an hour, what is the difference?" The light on the kettle lit up blue as Francis opened the pantry. "Time is but numbers, and you, _Angleterre_," he added casually, "are quite a difficult puzzle."

"And you, Francis Bonnefoy, are an arse through and through," he countered drily, although the Frenchman's tone—that superior, know-it-all air that Alfred had been using, along with that self-satisfied smirk—was starting to annoy him. "Which is really more than I can say for someone like you."

"I meant it in the best way, Arthur," Francis said, pretending to be hurt. "Sometimes simplicity is the key." He pointed to the book, lying facedown on the counter, still opened. "Look at that page and I shall do my best to explain."

Arthur propped his chin on his hands, holding the pages with his other hand. He stared uninterestedly at the rose.

"Shouldn't take too long."

He placed a cup in front of the Brit. The patterns on it are subtle: a thin vine with painstakingly painted pink flowers, the porcelain curving slightly inwards on the rim like petals. He brought the cup to his lips as he listened to the drone of rain pattering and Francis, whose voice is mild and strangely comforting.

"This rose," he said, tapping the book, "is you. You are proud, stubborn, and sarcastic. You worry too much, over the most insignificant things, and sometimes you worry too little, as you choose to remember things as it pleases you."

"Francis, if you are to list out my faults I would like to leave now—"

"Listen for a moment, Arthur—it's because you are all that and so much more which makes you different, it's why I…" He tapered off lamely and coughed. "Arthur, as a designer I see many, many versions of the same idea. We're always looking for something new to bring out the best of the collection. I want to…I want to propose a deal."

Francis clasped his fingers together, very proper, very businesslike, and seeming just a bit forced.

"A deal?" Arthur echoed.

"I want you, Arthur Kirkland, to be my model."

Arthur blinked.

"Is…is that all?"

Francis looked bewildered then.

"I'm sorry?"

And Arthur began to laugh. It started out as a chuckle, becoming hollow as he pressed his palms to his forehead.

"I've been wondering who I was to you," Arthur finally got out. "I mean, I've been thinking about why you'd want to spend your time with a university student who doesn't know a thing, much less care, about fashion. I thought it was because you felt sorry for me and decided to strike up a conversation, but it was really _this_. Do you think this is funny?" Arthur bit his lip, sobering up with each word. "Is it entertaining to you that I know so little about your fancy world of glamour and design because of my position?"

Francis looked at him helplessly as the other's word turned cold.

"Arthur—"

"You know what else I thought? I even thought that it was nice of you to bring that stupid bunch of roses just to meet up with me, and staying when I'm not all dressed up like at the after party. I know why now." He swallowed thickly. "I don't want any more mind games and playing dress-up—a-and listening to you pretending to be my friend and feeding me a bunch of lies yesterday—"

"_Yesterday_," Francis burst out, slamming one hand on the table. "Yesterday was not a lie. I would _never_ lie to you."

"I am not a fool, Francis," Arthur returned frostily. His words sounded meaningless and empty, even to himself. And suddenly he noticed he was shouting. He was shouting for no good reason other than because he wanted to; he knew it was childish and he hated it. "You think I'm some doll you can play with before you find one of those coked-up socialites who'd sleep with anyone they see. I don't know why you insist on associating yourself with me, but I know as sure as hell that it's not because of who I am." He stood up and grabbed his groceries as he prepared to leave, his voice became sharper, "Forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but I don't want to get caught up in some celebrity scandal pretending to be your toy—"

Arthur had reached the door, but Francis yanked on his wrist and threw him against the wall, closing the space between them, his face stoic. Francis narrowed his eyes.

"Am I supposed to be defined by my position in society, or by who I am? Isn't that what you want to know about yourself?"

"I don't bloody know—" Alarmed, Arthur dropped his bags and tried to push the man away. "Francis, I want to go home—"

"I'd appreciate it very much if you would stop making grand assumptions and condemning me, Arthur," he went on grimly. "I—I can't tell you my reasons now because you won't believe me—"

"Believe what?" he hissed. "There's nothing to it—"

"Please understand, Arthur. You think I'm here because I see you only as a business deal, and when I first saw you in Vargas's store I will admit I didn't think much about you. But when you were on the runway and talking yesterday, about your family and your home and the university, you were captivating. You were enchanting and witty and I know if I say any more you'd hit me in the jaw for being—what is the word…"

"A complete and utter bastard, damn it, Francis, let me go—"

"Something like that. But I mean everything. You think I am in the wrong, that I am just like that American idiot. I am not Jones, and I will never be Jones."

Arthur froze instantly at the name and stared up at Francis.

"What?" he whispered.

Francis only leaned in.

"I saw him at North Side waiting on a park bench." Francis pursed his lips. "He was waiting for you." It wasn't a question.

Then it all came to him, realization and guilt crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. He had been meaning to meet Alfred at North Side at five. That was why Francis had seemed so irritable, so intent on bringing him to his apartment. The clock on the wall pointed to seven o'clock, and the sky outside had long dimmed to a dark shade of grey, just like in Feliciano's sketch.

"I—I don't—" He grasped at Francis's shoulder, still pressed against the wall. "I have to go, Francis. Let go—"

"If words aren't good enough," Francis insisted, gripping Arthur's hands tighter, "then what are?"

"You're hurting me, you sodding git—"

"No," he said firmly. "Not when you still don't trust me."

Arthur's lip quivered, but he said nothing.

"Is it because you're afraid?" Francis accused, his tone getting frantic. "Is it because of me?"

Arthur raised his head and looked at Francis in the eye.

"It's not a matter of being afraid. I still am, I understand perfectly. I'm scared of too many things, I'll admit that for now, but at least in the past I knew what I should and shouldn't do." He gazed at him meaningfully. "I don't know what constitutes as right or wrong anymore."

"They don't always have to be either," Francis responded after a small pause, his voice lowering.

"Well," Arthur said, "they weren't always like that for me."

At the last moment, Francis tightened his hand and managed to hold on to the tips of Arthur's fingers.

"If I let you go," he said slowly, "are you going to go look for Jones?"

"No," he lied.

_But __that__'__s __not for __you __to __decide, _was what he really meant to say.

Francis seemed relieved.

"Will you think about my offer?" he asked quietly.

And Arthur nodded wordlessly, his hands slipping away from Francis's gently, as easily as anything.

* * *

><p>As he stepped out from the building and down an unfamiliar road to North Side, he didn't know exactly what looking for Alfred was going to accomplish. It had already been a full two hours since he'd agreed to go there, and he thought it would be highly unlikely that Alfred would stay for this long, at least not with the weather blowing rain everywhere.<p>

Arthur had decided—he was going to confront Alfred and explain everything. He owed him that much.

(He wondered if Francis could see him from his apartment window.)

He spotted Alfred from a few yards away. Most of the civilians had cleared out and there was only one person on the bus bench. Arthur had almost passed him, but hesitated when he noticed a blond strand of hair that defied gravity and stayed up, despite the fact that it was dripping wet. But when he came up closer and saw Alfred, sprawled out quite inelegantly in a worn bomber jacket and crumpled jeans, fast-asleep and practically snoring earthquakes, Arthur began to have second thoughts.

He shook Alfred on the shoulder, and the American blearily opened one eye, muttering incoherently until his head flopped back again. Arthur was on the verge of leaving him there by then, until it started to sprinkle, getting heavier and heavier and hinting that it was about to start building up to a terrific storm.

What could he do? He couldn't leave Alfred there, no matter how much of selfish prat he'd claimed Alfred was.

So he'd decided to sling Alfred's arm over his shoulder with the intention of hauling him back to the university like luggage. As if perfectly timed, the American woke up when a particularly large cab sped down the street and doused them both with rain water.

At that moment, when Alfred turned to him in surprise, there were a lot of things he could've done. Under normal circumstances, Arthur probably would've either rebut whatever Alfred had to say with insults, or run away.

Gritting his teeth and bringing Alfred back to his room was not one of them. But he did it anyways.

* * *

><p>"Here," Arthur said, tossing a towel at Alfred without looking at him. "What the hell were you thinking, falling asleep outside like that? Have you gone completely mental?"<p>

Alfred caught it with one hand.

"You're that person I met on the street," he said. "Arthur."

Arthur opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He continued to pat his hair dry, hiding his face underneath his washcloth.

"I saw you in the old guy's room today," he said. "That was you, wasn't it?"

Arthur's back was facing him when he corrected, "The Professor's classroom, you mean."

"You didn't say hi to me."

"I—wait, is that all you care about? I didn't think you would have remembered me," Arthur answered. "It's been a while—"

"Like, a couple days, yeah." Alfred shrugged. "How'd you know I was at the bus stop?"

"I was passing by," Arthur protested. "It was starting to rain, and you were sleeping like the dead, what was I suppose to do—"

"Yeah, that's what they all say," Alfred waved it away. "That's kind of creepy."

"You—" Arthur's face heated up, but it was more out of anger than embarrassment. He grabbed a new change of clothes and marched into the bathroom. "Fine," he bit out icily. "I shouldn't have bothered. I should've left you outside to rot. I'm going to change. When you're done, get out of my room, and we can forget this ever happened."

"Wait!" Alfred followed him, but Arthur slammed the door in his face. "I was only joking, I didn't mean it like that—"

He should've guessed that Alfred would be the same, what was he expecting? He was waiting for Angel, not him. Five minutes later, Arthur heard the muffled clicking of the front door closing and shutting. Alfred was gone.

Arthur's eyes burned. He laid his glasses by the sink and wiped them with his palm. He'd been handling things by himself for a while now, it was ridiculous to do something so pathetic, so useless, as crying. It wasn't so much as the fact that Alfred had left that he was upset, but disappointment that nothing had changed, and for being so stupid that he'd unconsciously believed that he might've even fallen in love.

Arthur exhaled and turned the knob, still rubbing at his eye as he stepped out.

"Arthur."

He stopped, his face pale with horror. Arthur slowly raised his head and looked at Alfred, whose expression was stricken with guilt and shock.

"I thought you'd left."

Alfred sighed, wringing his hands.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said. I've been waiting for someone for a while but they didn't show up."

"Do you…" Arthur could barely get the words out. "Do you know who I am?"

Alfred didn't answer immediately.

"Arthur," he said at length. "You're Arthur."

"But I'm not wearing—don't you—" He was stammering, and stood perfectly still when Alfred suddenly walked towards him and wrapped his arms around him.

"So much for being a hero," he whispered, his chin brushing Arthur's forehead. The American's jacket was cold and slightly damp, but his voice was soothing, and Arthur began to cry. "You're right. I am an idiot. God, I'm sorry."

Arthur wondered for what exactly was Alfred apologizing. He only bit his lip to stifle his hiccups and leaned on Alfred's shoulder because his head hurt. Alfred didn't sound pompous or arrogant, and Arthur wanted to ask why. Why he was acting like this. Why he was standing here and holding onto him like he was someone who mattered.

He also wondered how Alfred sounded like he knew so much about him when Arthur knew almost nothing about Alfred.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I suspect this story will have 10+ chapters, and I really had intended to bust out a lot more than this. Sorry about the wait, for those who are still following! Leftover sp and grammar and DM linked words will be corrected later.

/edit: Also, it's gonna be M-rated for the next chapter. Just saying.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p>Once Arthur became fully conscious of the situation, his grip on Alfred's jacket slackened and the color drained out from his cheeks. He was neither embarrassed nor ashamed then, and instead of, he assumed from the way Alfred was looking at him, being swooned and completely swept off his feet, he realized that under absolutely no acceptable circumstances was he allowed to be in a position with Alfred like this, clinging on to him as if for dear life during that fleeting, utterly human moment of total devastation.<p>

That was a perfectly fine reason, Arthur told himself, because he was depressed and it was natural for him to not want Alfred to leave. But once that moment had melted away, it dawned upon him that Alfred was too close for no good reason, that he should be pushing the other away and out the door and out of his life. How contradictory that was, the thought poked at Arthur's mind incessantly, for it had been Arthur to initiate everything—the meeting, the kiss, bringing Alfred back—and that if there was any one person to blame it would be Arthur himself.

Francis had been kind enough to not label him a coward. But perhaps he was, allowing himself to be led into a situation such as this and telling himself lies until he nearly thought them to be real. Some new clothes and a different name, did he expect that to change him into someone else entirely? Alfred's words blurred, low and familiar and confident, and reality slipped away as Arthur fell from the throne he'd fashioned from the past few days of useless wondering.

It was true—he _had_ felt terrible. He had been so caught up worrying about being discovered and truth and honesty and brooding over his wounded pride that he'd unwittingly became increasingly absorbed in himself. Arthur had never been one to accept assumptions as facts, though he would never do anything about them, either. Francis was right about Arthur being a difficult puzzle. He was, indeed, a puzzle through and through, with ill-fitted pieces that formed a picture of all sky.

But he couldn't stop. It was the same as watching a train wreck in slow motion, waiting for the last impending moment and seeing the collision without being able to do anything about it. Muffled wails turned into bitter hiccups; he couldn't remember why he had been so upset. It couldn't have been Alfred, because he would've stopped when Alfred suddenly came up to him. He didn't know what it was, though it stung nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, I don't know—this is really silly, but I can't—" He was a mess, eyes red and unintentionally ruining Alfred's shirt by pressing his face against it in an attempt to stifle his sniffles. And Alfred—he was holding on to Arthur's shoulders as if trying to restrain his shivers. He said nothing, and Arthur was too embarrassed to look up to see the other's expression. He exhaled finally, shuddering, "I'm fine, Alfred, you can—"

"Oh." Alfred's arms flew off immediately as he moved back. "Sorry. I didn't know what to do—"

"That's…alright." His gaze panned to the window. "It stopped raining. You should leave before it starts up again."

"I, uh, guess so." Alfred reached behind his neck awkwardly. "Hey. You're okay, right?"

"Yes, I am."

Alfred didn't respond, and it wasn't until Arthur turned his head did he realize that Alfred wasn't going to brush it off as easily as Arthur had wanted everything to be.

"You positive about that?"

His tone had none of the remnants of faked sympathy or arrogance that Arthur was expecting; he could very well be acting, having at least the decency of sparing Arthur the embarrassment by pretending as if he genuinely cared, but which side of Alfred was real? And what a curious question. Nothing about his uncanny resemblance with "Angel", nor inquiring if he'd been at a party, any party, the past few days.

Arthur answered quietly, after a pause, "Of course."

After all, it was better to hide away unhappiness than to become a burden. And Arthur was nothing if not skilled at shielding himself from the world.

"Okay," Alfred said, though not quite convinced. "Arthur…I…" But he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and moved towards the exit. "Thanks for finding me. I'll see you around."

And just as simple of a coincidence as they'd met, Alfred stepped out into the hallway and disappeared as easily as he'd come. As the door slipped shut and the pounding in Arthur's ear was drowned out by the blast of a sudden onslaught of traffic from outside, Alfred's words registered and he found it funny that when in reality, it really had been Alfred who'd been the first to find him.

* * *

><p>He wholly believed that that was the end of it all. It had been a week since that abrupt encounter with Alfred F. Jones. Arthur had to convince Feliciano repeatedly that nothing had happened between him and Alfred (because it was such a lucky coincidence that Feliciano happened to have met Alfred on the elevator and struck up a conversation), the same words he himself wanted to believe. Life returned to the way it'd been before: classes five days a week, Feliciano cooking pasta three times in a row, nights with Arthur pouring over textbooks and Feliciano fussing over his sketches. The commotion over the new students died down over time among the female population of the school, and everything was just the way Arthur had wanted it to be.<p>

But he had expected again. Expected something more out of what was possibly their last meeting. After three days with no signs of Alfred around the campus, Arthur resigned himself to the fact that he would never see Alfred, that he should stop thinking and deciphering what Alfred had meant by finding him, because as far as Arthur was concerned, that just made him the exact definition of a creeper.

Feliciano appeared at the doorway, folding his paint-stained apron and tucking it under his arms.

"It's one-forty," he announced to Arthur, still hunched over his calculations under a yellow desk lamp. "I'm going to bed."

Arthur inclined his chin in acknowledgment.

"Alright." He gazed upwards after a while. "Aren't you going?"

Feliciano started, but remained where he was, fidgeting.

"Have you talked with Francis?"

"I'm afraid not," Arthur replied flatly. "I imagine he must be busy."

In fact, he had not replied to Francis's messages since the last time they'd met, but he had scribbled Francis's offer and number at the top of his notebook, because despite everything that had happened the past week he couldn't bring himself to erase it.

"I…I suppose so," Feliciano said. "Have you…seen Alfred around?" he prompted meekly.

Arthur's paused in his work.

"What about Alfred?"

Feliciano flinched.

"It's for my brother. Alfred's family is funding his shows in London this time—and…"

Arthur's expression grew weary and the frustration dissipated from the thin line of his pursed lips.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Arthur apologized tiredly. "No, I haven't seen him."

Feliciano nodded and murmured a quiet good-night before the lights in his room switched off. Arthur's pencil pecked at his last written word as he leaned back on his chair, the room silent save for the humming of the heater and the occasional siren from three blocks away. He had an interview tomorrow at the publishing house his professor recommended, so he really shouldn't be staying up and idling about. Arthur arched his back and breathed out. There was no point to continue when he could barely comprehend his own handwriting.

He turned to his phone, mutely buzzing and flashing Francis's name like a lifeline. Arthur reached for it and sighed for the last time before rolling his eyes at the screen. He slid his finger across the screen to the photo and paused; it was a picture of himself, standing against a patch of darkness with few city lights dotted in a neat, tiny line in the distance behind.

**Francis, 1:55 A.M.  
><strong>_Took it at our very first rendezvous, when you were not looking. _

Francis had taught Arthur a phrase once—_l'esprit de l'escalier—_which he used to describe himself. Staircase wit, Francis had called it, for he had been lamenting (with great sarcasm, of course), that Arthur was cruel to never allow a word in their conversations and therefore his best arguments never came to mind until much too late_. _Arthur could not remember how he managed to recall such a term. It was something Arthur hadn't intended to do but did so anyway, like meeting Francis and Alfred, or walking on the runway, or pretending to be someone else to save his pride.

His phone buzzed again and displayed a new text—

**Francis, 1:57 A.M.  
><strong>_I have not acted in the best of manners last week. Please allow me to apologize. Are you free Friday? _

It was tempting to reply with a cleverly thought up rejection, or let Francis assume that he'd gone to sleep a long time ago. But Arthur only switched the lamp off and sat down on the edge of his mattress, tapping quickly on his phone before setting it on the bedside table as he had done so many times before.

**Arthur, 2:00 A.M.  
><strong>_You're buying._

* * *

><p>Arthur didn't believe in fate (he used to believe in magic, but that was a long time ago, which involved the thought that flying on a broomstick was possible and a broken arm). Horoscopes were mere scams, as were fortune tellers and carnival parlor tricks. But as fate would have it, at three-thirty on a Friday afternoon, Alfred would call his name while Arthur came down the steps of the Research Building, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt two sizes too large and covered in an enormous American flag print.<p>

Alfred barely managed to catch up to Arthur and lay a hand on his shoulder before the Brit decided to bolt.

"Hey!" Alfred flashed his biggest, most ridiculously friendly grin a person could give. "It's me, remember?"

"Alfred," Arthur said. "How could I forget?"

"I never got to thank you properly last time," Alfred grinned. "I was just talking to my brother about you, did you know?" He stuffed his hands into his pocket, peering at Arthur as if searching for something. "You sure know where to show up—"

"Why are you following me?" Arthur stopped abruptly, gripping the strap of his messenger bag. "What do you want?"

"Oh, uh, I—" The American fumbled with his words, but other than that he appeared unaffected by the glares Arthur was giving him. "I wanted to, uh, ask if you wanted to go get some coffee." He continued quickly, noting Arthur's expression, "No, not like that, I'm not hitting on you or anything—"

Arthur turned away and picked up his pace, only that Alfred tagged right behind eagerly.

"Last week we haven't gotten off on a great start, I want to make it up—"

"It's fine," Arthur answered frigidly. "I'd rather we stop right here than waste the afternoon mulling over some half-rate drink with the two of us being bored."

Alfred shook his head vehemently.

"We won't be bored. I can think of all sorts of things to talk about. When I was a kid my friend's parents paid me to shut up on a camping trip once—"

"Shocker."

"—and we can do a bunch of things. You can show me around the city, too."

Arthur scoffed disbelievingly, "What makes you think I know more about the city than you? And when have I turned into your tour guide?"

"Well, you're British, aren't you?"

"And what is that supposed to prove?"

"Meaning that you know all about England!"

"Oh, that is just plain ignorant."

"Come on, Artie," he bugged. "We can go sightseeing. Oh, and ride those buses with stairs, those are pretty cool."

"You have those in America, Alfred," Arthur pointed out blandly.

"Yeah," he said, "but it doesn't have that Harry Potter vibe to it."

"No." Arthur narrowed his eyes and gave Alfred a glare that would've made most people run for it, but Alfred was either too thick to register the daggers of animosity poking him in the face or chose to ignore it altogether. "I don't have the time. And where were you anyways, disappearing for the last week?"

Alfred's eyes lit up.

"You were looking for me? That's so nice of y—"

"I most certainly was not!" Arthur exclaimed.

"—but duty calls, and heroes have to be flexible about their schedules." He paused, and for a split second a troubled frown flashed across his face. "It's nothing much, I had to, ah, catch up on some things."

"If that's the case—" He squinted, perturbed. "What—what have you done to your cheek?"

There was a fading, discolored bruise plastered on the side of Alfred's face that Arthur had glanced over when Alfred first showed up, though it hadn't looked as serious as it did at this particular angle. Alfred's hand flew up to it protectively and he laughed nervously.

"Oh, that. Mattie—my brother—he was hogging the T.V. and I was trying to wrestle the remote from him, so he kicked me and I fell kinda hard. Pretty stupid, huh? So where are you headed?"

"Back to my apartment." He tried to steal another glimpse at the mark, but Alfred seemed to be largely aware of it and made a mental note to avoid showing the left side of his face. "Do you want some ice on that?"

"What—oh, no, it's cool." He changed the topic, "And then coffee?"

"I'm afraid not," Arthur answered. "I'm busy for the rest of today. I'm sorry."

"How about tomorrow?"

"I'm busy tomorrow also."

"Sunday?" Alfred asked hopefully.

"I have to—Alfred, stop. I can't go, that's final."

"Why not?"

"Because!" Arthur wrung his hands, frustrated. There were a million reasons for him to reject the offer, yet he couldn't tell Alfred outright without sounding like an idiot: _Oh, I can't spend more time with you because then I'll blow my cover and I've been trying to pretend you didn't exist for the past week. _"I just can't, okay?"

"What is it?" Alfred demanded. "Does my breath smell or something?"

"No, that's not—"

"Then I don't get it. I'm asking for one cup of coffee, not for you to—to marry me, I don't know." He sighed. "Look, I've pissed off a lot of people this month, and adding you on the list isn't going to make anything better. I want to make things right, at least for one person."

"That's…that's thoughtful of you."

"You don't even have to do anything, Arthur, I mean it."

"Alfred—" He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You wouldn't understand."

"Understand _what_?" Alfred burst out incredulously.

"I know," he exhaled slowly, "I know you think that doing this would make me feel better. It's extremely kind of you, but this isn't going to fix anything."

"Have you already decided that you hate me, then?" Alfred intoned matter-of-factly.

"I…" He didn't what to say, not when Alfred seemed so dejected and hurt and suddenly as vulnerable as Arthur had once been. "I don't…hate you."

"Could've fooled me."

"No, Alfred, I just—this isn't going to work." Alfred stood still, waiting for an explanation Arthur couldn't deliver. "It's just that—"

"What a coincidence," the voice remarked drily next to them. A dark sedan had pulled by the sidewalk and rolled its tinted windows down; Francis, looking particularly bored through his shades (as far as Arthur could tell), was giving Alfred a condescending expression. "Alfred F. Jones. How have you been? Still in school, I hope, and not spending your father's money on illegal establishments."

Alfred was taken by surprise, though he composed himself and scowled back, "Very fucking funny. Where's that girl of yours, Bonnefoy? Last time I saw you she was starting to get cozy around you. Made her think that she could stay, huh?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Francis said, unfazed. His glare softened as he addressed Arthur, "It seems as though I have come at a bad time, _non_?"

Alfred turned enormous eyes on Arthur and pressed on, "You know who he is?"

Arthur wrenched open the door and tossed his backpack inside guiltily.

"Not at all," he replied in a small voice before facing Alfred. "Maybe some other time, if you still…"

"Yeah, alright." He looked past Arthur and glowered at Francis disdainfully. "I'll find you."

The engine roared mutely and continued down the street until Alfred's figure shrinked into the distance. Arthur crossed his arms and regarded Francis's silence with a piercing comment, "What?"

"It's too small of a world, don't you agree?"

"Don't start berating me as if it were my fault he came up to me. You can't control what happens around me. _I_ can't control that."

"A pity."

"I'm sorry?" Arthur retorted sharply.

"I did not say a word." Francis looked pointedly at him. "Where to, _mon cher_?"

Arthur threw him a look of utter distaste; he propped his chin on one hand and stared out the window at nothing in particular. It took him a while to respond.

"Why did you message me?"

"I wanted to make things right between us," he said, but Arthur groaned loudly.

"Enough with that!" he grumbled acrimoniously. "What is it with the lot of you thinking that you've offended me? And even if you had, I haven't seen you for a week and contrary to your beliefs, I'd rather try to forget than to hold childish grudges for that long." He furrowed his brows as they passed someone who looked suspiciously like Feliciano. "There isn't anything to 'make right'. There is no—no _us_—"

"This isn't about Jones," Francis countered calmly, removing his glasses and tucking it on his shirt collar. "What I did, when I forced my offer upon on, it wasn't proper. I shouldn't have done that." His fingers thrummed the wheel. "I'll take you wherever you want."

"Good," Arthur said briskly. "We're done then. You can drop me off at the next curb."

"If you wish."

Arthur face was still turned towards the window.

"I appreciate it," he said, somewhat hesitantly.

"I understand," Francis retuned simply.

But leaving meant going back to Alfred, and Arthur was in no mood to return and renew their interrupted conversation. He pursed his lips defiantly and wrapped his arms around his bag.

"Actually," he said finally, his face grim, "take me to the nearest pub."

Francis had barely moved a muscle, though the corner of his mouth curved upward for a brief second.

"Allow me to suggest elsewhere, _Angleterre_."

"Not a hotel, frog," Arthur huffed. "Don't give me that look, I know you were thinking that."

"Do keep your tongue in check, Arthur," he said amusedly, "else I shall think your intentions to be indecent."

"I'll_ kill _you," Arthur shot back, but he retracted into a slump back in his seat. "That was the last thing I'd have assumed someone like you would say."

Francis raised an eyebrow, quirking a smile.

"Shall we?"

"It better be someplace good," Arthur said, giving in with a sigh.

"Nowhere but the best."

* * *

><p>Arthur deadpanned at Francis, but nonetheless, he set his books and schoolwork down on the coffee table gingerly (he was mildly surprised the furniture's three skinny legs didn't snap under the weight) and slipped onto the barstool. Behind the countertop stood Francis, arranging an impressive display of wine bottles from this cubby to that. He selected two stemmed glasses and placed one in front of Arthur with a flourish. Arthur only crossed his legs and looked disapprovingly at the Frenchman, making it obvious that he was questioning why in the world he was back in Francis's apartment when Francis had made it seem so very much like he was about to take him to some elegant, membership-only bar.<p>

"The best you could do," Arthur commented, flipping through the lingerie magazines Francis had left on the counter, "was to take me to your flat."

"English pubs are sub-par," Francis lamented, dipping the bottle of the Pinot Noir in his hands and filled Arthur's glass. "You had made it clear your goal was to get drunk in the middle of the day, and you failed to specify where. Besides, I'd hate to be poisoned by being served terrible wine." He set the bottle down, turning the label towards Arthur. "Imported, of course."

"And so your solution was to bring me back to your apartment," Arthur repeated. "You shall have to start persuading me," he mimicked, "else I'd begin to think your intentions to be indecent." He paused at a page of one scantily clad woman posing for the cover and lifted it for Francis. "Very tasteful," he added drily.

Francis plucked the book out of Arthur's hands and settled down across him, sipping at his drink.

"All in good time, _mon cher_," he said, placing the magazine back in its stack.

"So." Arthur swirled his glass around gently, watching his reflection blur in the liquid. "I take it that you and Alfred don't get along."

"That is one way to put it," Francis snorted, and as an afterthought, "He makes it difficult."

"How so?"

"Let me put it this way, _cher_," Francis replied. "His parents funded my very first runway show. It would not do to offend any of the Jones family, even someone as obnoxious as Alfred himself."

"And I'm sure today you were keeping your scathing remarks at a minimum," Arthur noted. "He's got a brother, he mentioned."

"Ah, yes. Mathieu Williams. Twins." His tone lowered as his gaze moved from Arthur to the bookshelf. "We were acquaintances a while back. But he is nothing like Jones."

Arthur blinked.

"'Williams'?" he inquired. "Not 'Jones'?"

"No," he said deliberately. "His parents divorced a few years back. Alfred stayed with his father in America, and Mathieu went with their mother in Paris. This is the first time in two years the Jones family had met up. At least, that is what the columns say these days."

"Oh." The wine glass was put back on the table, untouched; Francis raised his eyebrow at this. "I wasn't aware."

"It is not well known," Francis agreed, then shrugged. "But what is true is that they wouldn't miss an occasion like this, separated or not. Bad for both their image and business."

"Alfred seems to get along well with his brother. He's got a bruise on his cheek, something about Matthew having kicked him," Arthur remembered. "Sibling rivalry?"

"Touching," Francis said after a considerable pause, "but I hardly think Mathieu would haven done that. And if there were to be sibling rivalries, I don't believe it'll be an everyday brawl. The Jones is a powerful family, if not also the center of the business world. They have associates in over ten countries running companies in their stead." He leaned against the edge of the counter, contemplating. "Alfred is the more probable successor after his father, though if Mathieu wanted to take over, which I think is highly unlikely, they would be fighting with attorneys, not fists."

"And what has Alfred to say about this?"

"Nothing," Francis quipped with an air of resigned annoyance. "Absolutely nothing. That is what the press is so frustrated with. He hasn't commented on anything regarding his standing on the corporation. As of this July he will turn twenty, and the most tabloids know of him is that he had been majoring in Aerospace Engineering back in Massachusetts."

"Would've never guessed."

Francis pulled a face, apparently largely unimpressed.

"Not a surprise though," he explained as he refilled his glass. "Jones Systems used to solely manufacture aircrafts until it expanded and extended its interests towards other businesses by either annexing them or sponsoring their activities."

"Why is that?" Arthur asked.

"It's good practice, I suppose." He stood and made his way to a nearby armchair were more magazines sat, some pristine white and uncreased, others age-old and dotted with coffee stains. He bent over and seemed to be searching for a particular issue. "To maintain power, maybe. To keep an unspoken debt between companies, or to insure their own financial victory if a rival industry happened to pose as a threat in the future. Big companies like Jones Systems will do all they can to keep their status from falling."

"Is that legal?"

Francis made a noncommittal noise, focused primarily on whatever he was looking for.

"The media registers the part Jones wants the world to see, that they're helping small enterprises build themselves up. I'm certain Jones's father knows his way around it. However they operate their dealings, they are extremely careful about it."

"You seem to know a great deal about this, being a designer."

Francis hands stopped and he smiled.

"It is better to keep myself informed than not. Every company associated with the name Jones should be aware of how the system works. But there have been some unfavorable headlines about the Jones family. Alfred in particular. Late-night scandals, underground parties, the likes."

Arthur found himself clenching his hands around the delicate glassware.

"So I've heard. I assume you have a few you'd like to share?" he challenged.

"Perhaps some other time, Angleterre. How about some of yours first?" Francis straightened and handed an open gossip magazine to Arthur, eyes studying Arthur's expression morph into horror. He pointed out the headlines with an accusing finger, chuckling, "'_Son of Multimillion CEO Seen Leaving After-Party with Male Model_'. It's a rather unflattering angle of you, don't you think?"

For a spilt second, he could not get any air into his lungs. The title was printed in red, making it more conspicuous than it already was. The story ran about two pages, with at least three grainy pictures showing the two at the bar, and outside entering a taxi. There were no direct mentions of Arthur, save for 'Angel' and the name of Lovino's agency; however, in each shot Arthur was draped on Alfred, hands grabbing the back of Alfred's suit jacket and in the most suggestive pose possible, to make matters worse. Arthur's features had been blurred enough to make him indistinguishable, and though he was much slighter than Alfred in the photos there was no mistaking his gender.

However, what stood out for him was the article near the corner of the second page: a short interview with a slender, pretty woman with sandy blond hair, her eyes boring at the camera in irritation. _What does Alfred F. Jones's ex-girlfriend, rising American model Charlotte Eves, think of this? _the text blared. _"I don't care what he does," the model claims, rolling her eyes. "You mean, did I know that he liked guys? What do you think? Maybe he was drunk then. I could never tell what he's thinking, anyways, like, you look at him when he gives you a gift and he's smiling, you can't say outright, 'Oh, he really means it.' He could be pretending. Besides, we broke up months ago." Eves has been acquainted with Jones for over four years and dated the future successor to Jones Systems for about two before— _

"Wha—how the—" He ran his fingers through his hair, absolutely distressed as he stared bug-eyed at the spread, at the muddled smile plastered on himself as Alfred held his waist and pressed his lips against his neck.

Francis patted Arthur's shoulders, unaffected and even beaming.

"Oh, don't worry yourself," he chirped. "With luck next week you shall become old news and no one will care about Jones and his mysterious companion. Gossip columns move at an impressive rate."

Arthur resisted the urge to tug harder at his hair.

"This is terrible," he wailed. "God, how long has this been out?"

"Around three days?" He let out a short, bemused laugh, eyeing at Arthur's glass. "Drink?"

"How can you act like this? I am in a magazine. People read these things. People at my _university_ will see this!" he moaned. "What am I going to do?"

Francis sobered and knitted his brows together.

"They cannot make out your face, nor do they have your name; it is fine." He placed a hand on the magazine and lowered it so he could see Arthur's panicked expression. "Do not be so melodramatic, _Angleterre_. It is unlike you and unbecoming. Drink?"

Arthur slammed down the paper, sending a glare so sharp it might've pierced the glass of the wine if it'd been tangible.

"Why haven't you told me this earlier?"

"My assistant had only pointed it out for me today," he replied nonchalantly, pressing the glass into Arthur's hands directly. "_Angleterre_," he mused. "If you are this upset over this article, I'll have you know that I am not entirely without the proper connections."

"What are you suggesting?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

Francis tapped the rim of the glass with one finger.

"A game," he said. "If you can outlast me—" He lifted up the Pinot Noir and raised it to Arthur's eyelevel. "—I will make sure you will never show up in the tabloids again." He smiled pleasantly at Arthur's doubtful frown. "Just like that."

"And if I happen to lose?"

"Compensation," Francis said gleefully. "I get to choose the price."

"You know I don't have money."

"I am not talking about money."

The tips of Francis's fingers landed on the back of Arthur's hand and instigated a rather violent movement as the Brit reeled his arm back in disgust. But he didn't retaliate verbally immediately, despite Francis's revolting leer that he so wished to physically slap off the man's face. The thought of the magazine frightened him more than the thought of Francis shoving him down onto some lavishly decorated mattress (which, Arthur concluded, he would put up a terrific fight before _that_ ever happened, unless that wasn't what Francis had meant at all). He had just barely managed to snag the job his professor recommended him for; all it took to possibly ruin Arthur's career was a slip of words from Feliciano, even, or some leaked information with Arthur's name by someone who'd attended the after-party. After all, surely there must be worse things in the world than Francis Bonnefoy!

"I don't lose, Bonnefoy," he said decisively, settling down hard in his seat and grasping the stem of his glass tightly.

Francis nodded appreciatively.

"Hm," was all he said, taking the magazine and pushing it to a corner. He continued thoughtfully, "You are a very convincing actor, I must admit." He raised his cup and clinked it against Arthur's drink lightly. "_Santé, mon cher_."

* * *

><p>"Well," Francis said, dangling his emptied glass by balancing the rim on a finger. "This was a terrible idea."<p>

Arthur had, after approximately two and a half drinks, slumped over the countertop and was muttering himself into delirium. They were both red-faced, though Francis merely rested his cheek on a hand, his vision becoming more focused on the stream of deep violet that splashed into his cup each time he refilled until he heard Arthur beginning to spout nonsense. (It had only occurred to him—much, much later—that they'd only gone through two rounds of alcohol.)

"What did you say?" Arthur demanded. It took a while for Francis to decode the garbled speech, running Arthur's line through his head until it began to sound vaguely human.

"Nothing." They sat in silence, and Francis made a mental note that Arthur fit quite well into the category of an angry drunk. He had started to show signs of intoxication by first cursing his university, then his brothers—one by one, until their names had been drilled into Francis's hazy mind (a large feat)—then turned his abuse to Francis and became, for a split moment, quite eloquent as he spat out a long, descriptive essay on how Francis was an abomination to mankind. But he never, Francis noticed, not once, mentioned Alfred. Francis loosened his tie, proclaiming, "It appears that I have won."

Arthur staggered a bit as he pushed himself into a standing position and warily took a step backwards.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Francis set his glass down. "I don't take advantage of drunkards."

"Ha!" Arthur sounded almost mental. Looked it, too. "You think of yourself as a saint, Bonnefoy," he spat out.

"No, Arthur. You think of me as a saint," he said, catching Arthur before the Brit slumped to the floor. Francis righted Arthur and slung his arm across his own shoulder, half-dragging Arthur down the hall. "I…" Arthur had taken to leaning against the Frenchman like a dead weight, and looks certainly were deceiving, for Arthur was nowhere as easy to carry as Francis had assumed. Francis paused for breath, "…am far from it. Not a lightweight, are you?"

"Shut your trap—" Francis grabbed Arthur's arm before it smacked into his face like a windmill. Arthur roared on, "—Why are we leaving? Where are you taking me? You didn't pay the bartender, you bloody frog—I want my glass—"

"I'm cutting you off," Francis replied heavily. He pushed the bedroom door open with his foot and threw Arthur onto the mattress. "I had…" He exhaled, sitting next to Arthur, who'd flopped onto his back with his eyes half-lidded. "I had thought carrying you into my bed would be easier than this." He looked over Arthur sprawled on his sheets, pulling possibly the most unattractive face that had ever been created. "And much more arousing, too," he added plainly, brushing Arthur's bangs out of his eyes while Arthur muttered on incoherently.

Arthur sighed deeply, burrowing his head into the pillow.

"Do you remember the phrase I'd told you, a while back?" Francis asked. Arthur seemed to be nodding ever so slightly, curled up against Francis. "Do you know the feeling of remorse when you cannot express what you want in words, or when it comes too late?"

"God, won't you shut the fuc—" Arthur's hand climbed up to his ears and he scowled. "Why are you so loud?" he mumbled.

"You understand, do you not?" he continued tonelessly. "Do you love him?"

"Who?" Arthur slurred back.

Francis didn't move.

"Jones."

"He's probably lost my bloody number. He'll lose my name in a couple more weeks."

"I doubt it," Francis said sourly. "You have made quite an impression on him, unfortunately."

"I don't love anybody," was Arthur's answer. He grabbed the edges of the sheets. "I won't. Not now. Not ever." He yawned. "Not again."

"What about me?

Arthur cracked an eye open.

"What about you?" he repeated.

"Who am I to you?" Francis insisted.

Arthur turned to him, his eyes big and tinted a dark shade of jade; and Francis saw then just how young Arthur was, despite threatening grimaces and spiteful glowers. And just as breakable, probably.

"You're a complete twat, and the most insufferable git I've met since I came to London." Arthur exhaled again, his eyes closing. "But you are always kind."

Francis intertwined his fingers with Arthur's gently.

"_Merci_," he said contently. He sighed when Arthur did not respond, and pressed his lips to Arthur's temple. "Too kind, perhaps," he said resignedly, taking his cell phone out of his pocket, "for ending my own game so early. You shall be the death of me, _Angleterre_."

He rose and left then; and Arthur began to dream as Francis made the call.

* * *

><p>Alfred glanced at the clock on the opposite wall; it was nearly nine. The sky had dimmed hours ago, yet he'd waited. He stood and stretched, placing a little Starbucks bottle on the carpeted floor next to Arthur's apartment door. There was a little post-it attached to the top, numbers and an address scribbled in blue ink and his name in the corner.<p>

As he turned a corner, Alfred's phone buzzed, a short, urgent noise that grew louder while the screen displayed the caller's name: _Charlotte Eves_.

Alfred answered tiredly, "Hello?"

"_Oh, so you decide to pick up _now_?_" Charlotte's voice was tinny and tinged with annoyance. "_Guess what I came across today? Let's see, how did it go? 'Future CEO of Jones Systems Starstruck by Male Model'. Pretty interesting, huh?_"

"Char…This really isn't a good time—"

"_So I've heard. Had a fight with your dad again, didn't you?_"

Alfred stiffened.

"_Who told you that?_" he demanded sharply. Charlotte only let out a huff.

"_It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, Alfie_." Alfred did not answer; he could picture the girl rolling her eyes under her mascara-thick lashes after a moment of terse silence. "_Alright, alright, I phoned Mattie_."

"Why did you in the first place?"

"_You don't sound very happy to talk to me_," Charlotte pointed out bluntly.

"Goddamit, Char, if you have nothing important—"

"_I wanted to talk to you, what do you think?_" She pouted, "_I want to talk about us_."

Alfred stopped before retorting, "There is no 'us'. You've made that very clear months ago."

"_Alfie…_" She sounded as if disappointed. "_I've been trying to call you for weeks but then I realized you weren't in even in America anymore._" Her tone was overwhelmingly sweet, the type one would use to coax a frightened pet from underneath the furniture. "_Alfred's angel, they're calling him. '…an unnamed, model shines as the newest and brightest star as he showcases Vargas's best collection.' The article's not…real, is it?_"

"Char…"

"_Did it really happen?_" She scoffed disbelievingly, "_I mean, no one's heard of him before, this Angel person. He must be an untrained stand-in. You don't even know where he comes from, Alfred. It's only exaggerated, right? You don't actually like him, do you?_"

"Look—"

Her words were desperate, "_I still love you, Alfie. What I did…it was a mistake. I want you back now._"

Alfred swallowed.

"I think…" He closed his eyes, his voice coming out harsher than he'd meant for it. "I think you need to hang up now."

"_Al_—"

Alfred pressed the button and the line clicked a short tune before ending the conversation. His thumb hovered the touch screen and was about to turn it off when a new message popped up.

**Mattie, 8:53 P.M.  
><strong>_hey when r u coming back_

He typed, "_Right now."_ The alert tone beeped back immediately.

**Mattie, 8:55 P.M.  
><strong>_professor finished lecturing?_

(Was that what he had told Matthew? He couldn't remember.)

**Mattie, 8:56 P.M.  
><strong>_dad doesn't want you wandering around at night_

Alfred glared at the screen, muttering under his breath, "Well, I don't want you telling shit to my ex, either." But he wrote out another reply with a shaky hand—_yea ik bro im on my way. _He shut off his phone before Matthew could send another text, leaning against the hallway wall and staring at the clock until the minute hand touched twelve.

"'Alfred's angel', huh?" He stared off. "How about that, Arthur."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Thanks for those who are still following my stories! I'm studying for SATs, and for some reason I just want to finish AAN before I do anything else, so…well. Basically, Chapter 8 = text-heavy backstory vomit. Also, Chelle is based on Seychelle, though her personality here is pretty much off.

This is probably turning into that one USUK story with a ridiculous amount of FrUK history. Bear with me. I think it would be strange if I just put Alfred in this chapter for no reason, haha. Alfred will have a bigger part in the next chapter and afterwards.

Also, have some tasteful porn. Which is not really porn but I'm just going to label it M anyways.

Sp and grammar and DM-linked words will be corrected later.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. <strong>

Alfred F. Jones was practically born to become the poster child of America, the blue-eyed golden boy with a smile that could melt glaciers. He was the type of kid parenting magazine companies would sell their souls to get him on the front cover. He could've been labeled America's Darling, or some other vaguely 1980s title the PR staff might've had on their ever-growing list of terrible nicknames, but Jones Senior would have chopped off his own legs than have his son appear on a magazine solely based on his physical appearances. Alfred was one of the possible candidates (and now, after the divorce, probably the only one) for the future CEO of Jones Systems, the head manufacturer of aircrafts and top-of-the-line electrical appliances, and sponsor of multiple well-known companies that may or may not have anything to do with aircrafts or electrical appliances.

So while most boys Alfred's age would be outside loafing around, Alfred had lessons packed from nine in the morning to five that were not limited to: three hours of piano, two of violin (which Alfred failed in spectacularly), etiquette (_What was that even for?_Alfred would reflect upon later in life; not only did it seem useless, but Alfred had forgotten most of the technicalities within a year), two and a half hours of mathematics and sciences each, and baseball practice on the weekends. Normal boys had reminders from their mothers about not staying out too late; Alfred had bodyguards around the perimeters of the mansion in case some nut job decided that it would be a good day to kidnap the heir to Jones Systems and ransom for cash.

But it wasn't as though Alfred's life was _terrible_. Oh no, his life was pretty damn good. It wasn't as if the bodyguards bothered him (they'd only ever acted up that one time when Alfred's basketball rolled off into the bushes and he went chasing after it), or that his parents had intended for those music classes to be a sort of mental torture. He had three horses, a dog named Franklin, and a hamster called Luke Skywalker, and he got almost every video game he asked for.

In fact, Alfred was one lucky brat. Because what kind of ten-year-old wore custom tailored Armani kiddie suits to his father's company banquets? Who the hell knew those even existed?

So it probably wasn't a surprise when Alfred nearly grew up to be a little shit. He was loud and annoying and opinionated, more than the average kid was allowed to be—the typical rich kid, except without the slicked back haircut and navy sweater vest. He didn't exactly have "friends". The kids he knew were referred to, in his head, as "acquaintances", meaning that they were equally snobby children of his father's "acquaintances", who had perfectly trimmed hair and could match Alfred with their expensive shoes and imported toys. Instead, he had Matthew, his long-suffering brother who was as silent as Alfred was loud. Matthew was glad to listen to Alfred's day at baseball practice and smile at the right moments; content to be overshadowed and talked over. As far as Alfred knew, anyways; Matthew had never protested otherwise, so Alfred didn't particularly see to it that Matthew was included in the little group he and the other boys had fashioned.

That is, until one of the kids mistook Matthew for Alfred and purposely pushed him down onto the lawn. The kid must have really hated Alfred's guts, Matthew later told his brother, or was just plain stupid to have done that at Alfred's house in the middle of Alfred's birthday party. Alfred had dropped the plate of cake he was holding and basically launched himself at the kid.

Two bloody noses and one threat to sue Jones Systems later, Alfred was grounded for three months (it wasn't as if he had anywhere to go, not with the bodyguards standing at watch). Thinking back on it, the situation was so cliché it was almost hilarious, like someone had ripped out a section of one of ABC Family's teen dramas and slapped it onto Alfred's childhood with a flourish.

"Thanks," Matthew's voice trailed out from the bottom bunk, the night of the incident and twenty minutes past their bedtime.

"He was an idiot," Alfred replied, his eyes glued on the ceiling. "He deserved it."

"Not for punching him," Matthew said in a small tone. "For standing up for me."

"What's the difference?"

"You were one of them." The bed sheets rustled from below. "They were your friends."

"They were _not_."

"They were," Matthew insisted. "Or pretended to be, at least. You knew you would've been in trouble today, but you did it anyways." A sigh followed, sleepy and contemplative. "It was brave of you."

"Yeah, well, that's what heroes are for, right?"

"Right," Matthew murmured.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I'm not really a hero, am I?" He buried his face into the pillow, his words coming out muffled. "Dad said I was disappointing."

"You're not." Matthew yawned, and settled under the covers. "Happy birthday, Al."

That was way back when everything was simpler though. When Mattie was still Matthew Jones and they had Christmas dinners together and went on impromptu camping trips. His parents split and Mattie left for Paris, and Alfred stayed in New York. He went on with high school, dated a couple of girls and drank stolen beer his classmates nicked from their parent's cabinets. He met Charlotte Eves in sophomore year (she had brown-hair then, Alfred remembered) and dated her steadily for a little over a year; then there was that break in between that he didn't really like to think about because hell if he knew what was even going on then.

(She had been drying her hair, dyed yellow locks clumped even as she ran her fingers through it.

"Alfred."

Alfred had been reaching for the ground, where he'd tossed his shirt hours ago. He looked at the back of her head, his arm frozen as he waited.

"Yeah?"

Charlotte pursed her lips, contemplating.

"It's nothing."

And she sat on the mattress and pulled Alfred down on her. It wouldn't be until next Tuesday Alfred learned from extended sources that Charlotte had gone home and stayed overnight with Tom Greene after a party three weeks ago.

Alfred never mentioned it, and Charlotte never brought it up. There must've been something wrong with him. But Mattie had left for Paris by then. He was starving for attention and someone, anyone. So he played nice, nodded dumbly, and let her twine her fingers with his.)

Alfred went through with mediocre first times, and passed his classes with average grades with the exception of Physics, which came to him surprisingly well. His mother and brother visited for his graduation, his parents sitting stiffly next to each other as they clapped for their son. Mattie was there too, looking softer than ever and a little bit sad, and it wasn't until later did Alfred learn that his brother had returned with a quiet French accent and a broken heart.

"He's a designer," Matthew told him, and left it at that before Alfred could promise to find the guy and beat him up.

"Why do you think that you can solve everything with fighting?" Matthew said in that little French quip of his. "You are already on probation with Dad for the People's magazine incident, don't make it worse."

Ah, right. The night when Alfred had taken a girl to the movies and ended up having sex with her behind the theater. At least, that was what the headlines said. She'd handed him her jacket and bent down to tie her shoelaces; it was an awfully distasteful position from where the cameras had nabbed them, the incessant flashes stunning and blinding him momentarily. He'd thought he'd never hear the end of it from Father Dearest, if it hadn't been for Mattie stepping in with a few choice words and that goddamn puppy-dog face of his.

("I had it under control!" Alfred hissed, once they were out in the hallway.

"Famous last words," Matthew said. "Dad can tolerate a couple of drunken parties. But _this_? First it was the woman from MoMA—"

"Adriene," Alfred supplied.

"—and then it was Isabelle, and then the lady from the benefit party, and then Mark." Matthew paused, and then emphasized more forcefully, "You and _Mark_."

"So what?"

"Papa's _forty-something_ friend from Kerns Tech."

"He wasn't _that_ old, stop making—"

Matthew's face scrunched up.

"Are you trying to be the male version of Paris Hilton? Next thing you know you'll have bizarre sex tapes out on the net."

"Shut up, Matt. I knew what I was doing."

"Dad was about to _knock_ you out of your seat."

Alfred laughed.

"He's bluffing. He's not going to punch me and make himself look bad. If I walk out one day with a couple of bruises, the media will see it and Jones Systems is going to collapse because people will think we're advocating child abuse or something…"

"Alfred, I was _scared_." Matthew stopped walking, staring Alfred down with as much force as he could muster as his fingers twitched on the stair railing. Alfred laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, smiling reassuringly.

"You honestly thought he was going to beat me up? Alright, alright, I won't pull this kinda shit again. No more appearing on People's magazines. I promise, bro—" He held out his pinky, but Matthew only looked at him, and Alfred shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling childish. "Geez, Mattie, you worry too much."

"You didn't like her, did you?"

"Who? Oh, Karen? Nah, not really."

Matthew's shoulders sagged considerably and he frowned.

"What about Charlotte?"

"What about her?" She was impassive, pretended the articles didn't exist and only grasped Alfred's wrist in a death-clamp whenever someone brought it up. "Look, my relationships are my problems—"

"Is that what you call them?" Matthew said. "Just what are you trying to prove? Do you think by doing this that you are your—your own person?"

"No." Each step down the stairs became slower, more deliberate. "It doesn't make me into anybody. It just gives me a few minutes to think that I have control of who I am and what I want to do."

He'd been reciting that in his head for a while now, and it'd run through his mind whenever a girl clasped her hand around his, when he flashed his fake ID at the bouncers at a new underground chain, or even when Mark from Kerns Tech hoisted him up onto the desk and slipped his hands under Alfred's shirt.

"I'm a disappointment. _He_ doesn't have to tell me. I know." Alfred shrugged. "Do I look like I care?"

Matthew pursed his lips in disapproval, but said no more.)

The Matthew then was young and relied on his brother more often times than not. The Matthew that had left and returned was independent, if not still soft-spoken; he had an air of equanimity around him, and it was sullen and heavy and Alfred—God knows he loves his brother to death—just couldn't _stand_ it sometimes.

"What's it with you and older dudes, bro?" Alfred responded. "Worry about yourself, not me."

"I'm not the future CEO of Jones Systems," Matthew reminded him calmly, word-for-word, each and every time.

"I wish you were," Alfred muttered, and Matthew just chuckled, because they both knew that with the divorce, Matthew Williams would never be the head of the company. "Who knows, Dad's shining a favorable light on Jackson, he might just turn the reins over to him."

But they both knew he was just humoring Matthew. Jones Senior trusted no one now, not when Kerns Tech's new graphic design for desktop interface looked freakishly like the ones Matthew had proposed not too long ago. Not when only half of the missing, scrapped blueprints had been recently recovered by an anonymous employee.

(Alfred would never tell Matthew that as Mark lifted him up onto the office desk, he'd slipped his hand down the man's back pocket and retrieved a tiny, Jones Systems USB drive, no doubt swiped after the PowerPoint presentation meant to impress the lone representative from Georgia's Kerns Tech. He didn't tell anyone, just left it in a nearby meeting room for the janitor to find. He would wipe the video evidence later. Clean and simple; lawsuits were so messy. And Jones Senior would probably be suing for more than the attempted theft; Alfred imagined something along the lines of _Kerns Tech rep sexually harassed a minor_, and then escalating to more articles about Alfred's sexuality, which Alfred really didn't give a shit about. He did it because Mark was throwing him long, sideway glances, and Alfred thought, _why the hell not_; because he wanted to feel needed. Not for the company. And definitely not for his dad.)

"Things have changed," Matthew continued. "Take care of yourself. I can't babysit you from Paris."

Maybe Alfred should've taken that warning a little closer to heart. Maybe then he wouldn't be walking out of his father's office in London, sporting a darkening bruise on the side of his cheek with a copy of a tabloid that had his and Arthur's grainy profiles sucking face stuck inside his backpack. Things sure have changed, with what the cell phone his dad had his assistant confiscate, which his dad had then deleted Angel's number from. Alfred himself wasn't sure what had happened then. Maybe something snapped. Maybe he just lost his mind entirely. Or that he was tired of hearing his name always being linked to the acronym CEO. And so there was that exchange of words Alfred felt that needed to be said, and not in the most tasteful language either.

"I don't want to be the CEO, have you asked me how I felt about that? I want to do something for myself, and do something that I actually want to do."

And before it even came out of his mouth Alfred knew how hideously naïve it was going to sound.

"Whoring yourself out to the public is doing something? Appearing on People's magazine in a couple of shitty paparazzi shots is _doing something_? What were you thinking?"

"No!" Alfred's teeth were clattering against each other, his hands curling up tight. "I want to start something that you haven't prompted me to initiate. I want to major in Aerospace Engineering for myself, not the goddamn company."

"You watch your mouth when you're talking to me! As long as you live under my roof, and use my money, you're going to do as I _say_, Alfred."

Neither spoke for a brief moment. Alfred sighed.

"Why?" he got out. "Why are you so bent on me taking over? I'm not even twenty, I need time, I can't do this now—"

His father's voice was tight.

"This is not about you, this is about your future—the world will rely on Jones Systems more heavily than ever, and I need someone who I know can handle the job to do this—"

"I can't!"

"—you _can_ and you _will_. But you need to stop this." His words were clipped and Alfred swore if they were tangible they'd be plopping on the carpeted floor like tiny pebbles. "You are not ten anymore; this—" He shook the magazine vehemently, but couldn't seem to be able to find the right words. "I expect better from you, Alfred. The tabloids, the pictures—this is not just an embarrassment, it's plain disappointing—"

_This is disappointing._

_You are disappointing. _

And that was that. Alfred was screaming, so sudden and sharp and broken, everywhere and all at once.

"You don't know anything! This is how I am, and if you can't fucking deal with that, then you can just let Mattie take over the company. And you know what? You can stop playing nice with Mom for the papers because every-fucking-one knows that you're just a pretentious, selfish asshole—"

He hadn't even seen the fist coming.

His dad recoiled immediately as Alfred brought his hand up to his face gingerly, as if he had been the one struck.

"Oh my God. Alfred—Jesus, I didn't mean that—wait!"

There was no Mattie here to save him this time when he dragged himself out of the office in a daze. All he knew was that he had no cell phone, he'd lost Arthur's number, and that he was probably going to look like a dump truck ran over his face in the morning.

It must have been pure dumb luck—scratch that, not dumb luck; _really_ crappy timing, that's what it was—that the first person saw on the way back the university was Arthur Kirkland.

He could've turned away. He could've gone back to his apartment and avoided Arthur entirely. It wasn't as if Arthur was his ex who he needed to chase after, because he wasn't in love with Arthur Kirkland. He loved the one-night fling, the rush when Arthur pressed his body against his and pulled him in for two or three drunken kisses. He liked sex (not that he ever got any with Arthur). Everybody liked sex. That was an argument all by itself.

(Which was most likely the reason he'd stayed with Charlotte Eves during their final year, simple as that. It'd been different, when they were just getting to know each other.)

Then there was that set of keys he'd been looking for appearing on his nightstand when Arthur left the hotel room in a rush of heated fury. Arthur was interesting, that being Alfred's first impression. But there was something wrong with the situation.

Not that folks wouldn't kill to hang out with Alfred for his dashing personality (insert canned laughter), but seriously, Arthur had to be after something. Maybe for money, for publicity, who knew what else people wanted from the Jones fortune? He had wanted to make Arthur admit everything. And yet, he was one of the only ones who'd taken his mentioning of heroes to heart, which was why he had so wanted Arthur to stay. Plus the guy decked him in the face—you really couldn't tell, not with Arthur's quiet stature and everything, but he could really pack a punch—so Alfred didn't know what to think.

He wished he knew exactly what _Arthur_ was thinking. Because it was hard enough decoding the guy without the reminder that Arthur apparently catered a fabulous night life as some supermodel named Angel. (Which was also kind of weird, because how had Alfred never met him before?) Maybe Arthur was just another fucked up person that he'd managed to bump into, but who knows.

Alfred didn't explain to anyone that Adriene from MoMA had been more interested in the works of Monet than the conversation Alfred had been running about the newest video games; that Isabelle had been over for a biology project and, while she did empty half of Jones Senior's prized bottle of chardonnay and stayed overnight sprawled on Alfred's bed, drunkenly let it known to Alfred that she had a girlfriend and that said girlfriend would break Alfred's nose if anything happened to her; that Alfred had suggested to the obviously uncomfortable woman from the benefit party that they paid a visit to the Jones Estate, where he listened to the her moan about her crazy, overly-obsessive boyfriend who "must've hacked the guest list, I swear to God, I don't remember him being ever invited". The truth sounded like a bunch of bullshit. No one wanted to hear about how he'd done all that because he thought he was doing the right thing. The tabloids were much more believable and interesting. It made Alfred _sound_ more interesting. But to Arthur, this image he'd been cultivating probably made him seem like a bigger douchebag than Matthew's old French boyfriend. And that was saying a lot.

Alfred was not ready for another relationship, nor had he ever considered Arthur in the first place. He would hate him, even, before it came to that. That was what he thought, again and again, until he saw Arthur for the second time, drenched and crying. And the third time, and the fourth time, and the fifth, until on some day (Alfred had long lost track), Arthur granted him a rare smile and Alfred realized that that was what he'd been waiting for. And later on, that he needed Arthur more than Arthur needed him. By the time he thought of this, it was too late and the little promise to himself became an empty echo of something that had been quite bitter and rotten.

But of course, Alfred couldn't have possibly known any of this when he'd stood in Arthur's flat, looking at his small frame and a scowl dampened by the rain, or when he hastily invited Arthur for coffee. All he was sure of then was that there was no one in the world that loathed him more than Arthur, and that he didn't exactly know why. So he bounded up to Arthur without a thought, in an American-flag print sweatshirt and a pack of well-devised lies.

"What have you done to your cheek?" Arthur had asked, craning his neck for a better look.

He'd told some story involving Mattie and brushed it off, but Arthur was staring him down.

"Do you want some ice on that?" he'd tried again, before Alfred changed the topic.

That was pretty much the highlight of their conversation. In short, Alfred went up to Arthur, and it went about as well as he'd imagined. Francis Bonnefoy appeared out of nowhere to pluck Arthur up from the streets before their conversation had gotten anywhere, reminding why Alfred hated French designers, besides the fact that one had apparently left Matthew before. Alfred ended up waving good-bye to Arthur as Arthur loaded his things into fucking Francis's car (Alfred swore he saw Francis lay his hand on Arthur's shoulder for over the allotted time that qualified as "just friends"—which totally pissed Alfred off, because Arthur flinched if the tips of Alfred's finger brushed against his sweater, as if Alfred harbored some terrible, ultra-contagious infection)—like a prom date rejectee before trudging back to his empty dorm and sticking his face to a slab of frozen steak for an hour while SpongeBob SquarePants played on the television. Depressing would've been the understatement of the year. If only the tabloids could get a load of him now.

And then there was the strangest feeling that he needed to save Arthur, just as he had with Matthew years ago. Obviously, he meant it in the sense that saving Arthur would be releasing him from the clutches of sleazy French designers whose hobbies included, among others, breaking hearts (as much as he had gathered from Matthew's vague account). It was the heroic thing to do, and it was so deliciously primetime soap opera material Alfred was surprised no one was knocking at his door yet to ask to create a sitcom based on him. And maybe he would write his own memoir on it, and turn into a New York bestselling author and live out his life known as the acclaimed writer of several New-Age classics instead of the CEO his dad wanted him to be, marry Arthur in the greatest wedding of the decade and adopt two ferocious golden retrievers and go on vacations in the Maldives on their anniversaries, and maybe they'd have a couple of kids running around in the backyard too, later on, because Arthur seemed the type to want to have children. Or at least something to that effect.

Alfred pressed the frozen meat harder against his face and turned the TV volume up. Because another thing Alfred was well aware of was that his decisions were, most of the time, neither logical nor rational. He'd come to London to spend the last year of his university days, and it was going just as he'd predicted: messed-up life, all that glitz and glamour, the usual. Only Charlotte was calling him again. Only that Matthew was here, the reason Alfred was still in one piece in his apartment and not rotting in some dismal European alleyway.

Only there was Arthur. Angel.

Whoever he was.

* * *

><p>Arthur didn't fall in love often. He'd dated a couple girls before; they were usually from study groups and, though they were nice enough, Arthur wanted someone that was so painfully opposite of him, someone who was outgoing and optimistic and took risks and was damn good at it. He'd almost thought himself to be in love with Chelle in his second year of secondary school; she was a small, pretty girl who had a talent for smuggling herself and Arthur into clubs on the weekends and possessed some inhumanly incredible strength, for she was able to drag him back home at three in the morning, and she fit Arthur's mental descriptions rather well. But she'd let him down easy. Chelle had, after consuming a large glass of sherry, laid her head on her hand and laughed.<p>

"You don't want to date me, Arthur Kirkland," she'd said, smiling. "Nah, I'd rather me and you spend our Saturdays like this, you know, getting smashed in a no-name club. I know you better than anyone else, and it's always a bad thing to love someone when you know too much about them."

"Why is that?" he'd asked, not out of spite but curiosity.

"Because," Chelle had replied, "you would get too attached. He'd be your world, and you wouldn't be your own person." She'd sighed, her grin fading. "And because you know they wouldn't be able to love you back as much as you do."

"Oh."

Chelle's smile was contagious, and it had come back with full-force once she sensed Arthur's apparent disappointment.

"Aw, Arthur, you're not turning me into a sentimental old fool like yourself. Besides," she had added, with a devilish smirk, "you're not cut out to handle me. No one is. So don't think you're something special."

She'd punched him in the shoulder and had proceeded to pull him to the dance floor, only to nearly vomit all the glasses she'd drunk right there and then. So they stayed friends, with Arthur listening to her laugh about her friends' doomed relationships and Chelle teasing him about Arthur's nonexistent one. But it was true; Arthur was definitely picky about who he wanted to have next to him.

"You're picky?" Chelle had roared with laughter. "Hell, darling, you can't afford to be picky. No offense, I love you, but _really_. You're on the road to nowhere, Arthur."

It was all Chelle's fault, in that case, Arthur thought, that his first time was with some guy he'd picked up at the local bar: tall, not-bad looking, maybe five or six years older than Arthur himself. And that was all well and nice, but what really got Arthur was that the man had honest-to-God blue eyes. It was unreal, both the guy's eye color and Arthur's affinity for blue eyes.

He didn't remember much of it anyways. Only bits and pieces that manage to resurface during alcohol-induced dreams. Over time, the memories pieced themselves together enough for Arthur to recall that he'd that been eighteen and a half and drunk, that the man was named Renald and was in London on a business transfer of some sort, that they had sex in some expensive hotel room on a Saturday night, that Renald was not just five or six years older, but twenty-eight and divorced with kids he visited every other weekend, and that Arthur himself had made the most unearthly noises known to man as he hooked his leg over Renald's shoulder and moaned for him to go faster.

Renald had muttered his share of filthy promises into Arthur's hair, too, but what really stood out was when Renald clasped his hand in Arthur's and said lowly against Arthur's lips, "I won't move until you're ready."

At that moment Arthur wasn't sure whether to throw up in the man's mouth or tell him to get better lines before Arthur laughed his naked arse right out of bed. But he must've drunk some magic juice hours ago, because not only did he kiss Renald back and move his hips upwards encouragingly, he managed to croak out a broken "I love you" to him, a man whom he'd known for less than twenty-four hours.

"Love, lift your legs higher," Renald had said, urgent and heavy—and damn, he was practically digging his fingers into Arthur's thigh—in a faint Scottish accent Arthur normally wouldn't be able to stand because it was as if he was fucking his brother (but then again, he was on a hotel bed that was not completely gross and getting laid, so totally not complaining at all).

Granted, the sex wasn't that spectacular mostly because Arthur forgot most of it, but it was probably better than getting screwed in the backseat of a bashed-up sedan, as far as these first times went. Renald made up for that the next morning when Arthur came out of the shower, pressing kisses along Arthur's collarbone and letting his hands wander down his spine, until they both wound up on the sheets again for approximately two more hours, until Arthur's body pressing against Renald's wasn't enough to entice the man to stay longer. Arthur wasn't looking to marry the guy or anything, he knew it was a one time thing from the start, but still couldn't help feeling disappointed when Renald finally had to peel himself from the bed and clean up for work. And maybe just a little hurt.

They'd bumped into each other a few more times in coffee shops and repeated their little routine for two more weeks, until the "one time thing" morphed into something else entirely. It was five months of liberation and contentment, complete with dinners and slow kisses in empty parks as they clutched to each other before they froze to death at one in the morning. He was utterly in love. It sickened Arthur to think it, but he was. He didn't think it'd go anywhere, yet he could care less. He was happy that this time he wasn't just entertaining some strange thrill of loving being in love. It was the first time he didn't feel alone since he came to London.

("You could come back with me," Renald proposed. He was bundled up to be shipped back to Glasgow, grasping Arthur's gloved hands in an affectionate manner. "We can have you intern at my company—we can figure something out—"

But Arthur refused. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Renald, burying his face into the woolen scarf. These things didn't happen. People—normal people—didn't meet strangers at bars and end up in committed relationships. So Arthur was here, holding his stranger and preparing to say good-bye.

"I need to stay here."

"So it's just a one-time thing?" It had become somewhat of a joke between them, but Arthur found it hard to smile. He began to protest, but Renald only chuckled sadly. He pressed his lips to the top of Arthur's head and closed his eyes. "I know what you mean, love. But you should know that I will…I will never meet someone else like you. You're..." He shook his head, laughing silently, mirthlessly. "You're really something else, Arthur."

Arthur kissed Renald at the platform as if he were dying, and turned his back before Renald could wave at him from the window.)

He was certain there was no one else like Renald. No one that would know how much Arthur liked certain novels, how he abhorred the taste of black coffee but thought the smell comforting because it reminded him of his parents, how he melted at a simple endearment, how his voice became lonely when he told of his school days, secrets admitted underneath the safety of darkened rooms.

And he was right. There were two more after him, two more potential 'Renalds' Arthur had met in the corner of pubs, one of whom almost forced Arthur to involve the usage of pepper spray. There were only a handful of people Arthur could name that he really loved, Chelle being the first, and Renald the second; might as well have been the last. _They_ made him feel loved, for at least a split second; made him think that he was their everything because they understood all the sordid details of his personality inside and out. With them he could forget about school and judgmental glares, and focus on the things that really mattered.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he'd asked Chelle, the next time she'd called him.

She'd laughed in that familiar way, her voice sounding tinny and far away.

"Hell if I know, Arthur. You're not getting him back now," she'd said affectionately, and added, upon Arthur's silence, "You're not throwing your life after this guy. You try to follow him and I will beat your arse back to London."

A few weeks later Arthur received a postcard from France; Chelle had gone to Paris as an art student, despite her parents' protests, and wished Arthur the best of luck. She'd changed her phone number, and there were no addresses attached. He hadn't heard from her since.

Things seemed quieter after Renald left. Until of course, Feliciano Vargas moved into his apartment two months later with his flashy designer luggage and infectiously cheery smiles. That was when Arthur willed himself to forget everything like it never happened. He was Arthur Kirkland, the boring, English-Lit obsessive student who was currently majoring in Physics because of better prospects during job-hunts; he was the nobody, the quiet, the ill-tempered, the unpopular, the one who didn't give a damn what people thought of him; the one who people say have never loved and will never be loved because there must be something the matter with him. Renald was from another lifetime, one that Arthur would rather hide away than reveal to the world that he was once so vulnerable. Needing to be needed was a trait that was probably unhealthy, Arthur decided. Psychology of codependency and the load of (probably bullshit) underlying implications it held when Feliciano told him about it from some magazine. Arthur could take care of himself. Or so he told himself.

Arthur brought Renald up once to Feliciano, when the latter had been worrying about that German fellow of his, if only to quiet him down. Not only did Feliciano cease his chattering, but presented a question Arthur hadn't thought about since his last phone call with Chelle.

"Do you think you should've stayed?"

Arthur told him mechanically, "No."

He knew that he was selfish in that he hated how everyone eventually had to leave. Moving the London was the most difficult decision he'd made, no matter how much his mother joked that it would be a relief not having Arthur underfoot anymore. When he'd found Renald (or rather, Renald found him, deep into his second glass at a shady bar called The Red Dragon), Arthur was glad. He'd been lost in a faraway city with new people, and since then he'd been looking for an anchor. And unwittingly, he had began using Alfred and Francis as that anchor, as fixed points that would remind him that he was not alone. In ways, they were too much like Renald, in that they would ultimately go somewhere he couldn't follow. Alfred to New York, and Francis to Paris. And it would just be him again.

He didn't hate Alfred. He hated what Alfred would do in the future if Arthur got more involved.

The dull screech of a faraway ambulance meandered by, and Arthur opened his eyes. It hit him them that this was not a pub, that this there was no Renald next to him because he wasn't in a hotel. He was in Francis Bonnefoy's penthouse, the digital clock pronouncing that it was two in the morning; he was supposed to be hung over and begging the universe to put him out of his supposed misery by destroying his very being.

Instead, Arthur slipped out of bed dazedly and tip-toed into the living room in search of water and something that wouldn't make him heave up the remaining contents of his stomach, as if he had lived in the penthouse all his life.

* * *

><p>Arthur found mugs in a corner cabinet and chose one, trying his best to make as little noise as possible. The hallways were darkened, the flat absolutely silent save for the clamor of wind that rattled the windows every so often. He was utterly displaced, clutching his cup of cold water and wandering around the penthouse. Arthur had no problems walking home by himself, but that would be rude, no matter how distasteful Francis could be at times; he had, after all, allowed Arthur to stay and had so far left him in one piece. Arthur sank carefully into a cushioned chair next to the bookshelves Francis had found him at, the last time he'd visited, sitting very still.<p>

He waited—for something to happen, for Francis to get up. He should wake Francis up and tell him that he was going back, before Feliciano called the police. Arthur laid his mug on the table nearby, and was about to find Francis when he realized he had placed the cup onto a lone magazine, and that the cover sported a familiar face.

_Alfred F. Jones—Future C.E.O. or about to be cut from the fortune?_

Arthur moved the cup and brought the magazine to the alcove by the window, where he could see Alfred's blurry profile become more pronounced underneath city lights. It was a recent issue, only two months old, and had articles composed more from other celebrities' opinions of Alfred than actual news. But there were photos, grainy ones that pictured Alfred in nightclubs, holding drinks, surrounded by men and women alike. He skimmed over the text until he paused at the final picture: a man with blond, wavy hair, looking nervously around, gripping Alfred's gloved hand as he pulled the latter down the street. _Matthew Williams, Jones's brother, drags a nonchalant Jones in the direction of Jones Systems._

Matthew had a peculiar shade of eye color—pale lavender—as if he were wearing colored contacts. He was not unlike Alfred in his features; a handsome individual, though he seemed less, somehow. Less defined, less arrogant, less assuming in the way he carried himself in the picture. Less like Alfred. And it hit Arthur he was not seeing Alfred's brother for the first time. Arthur had come across Matthew before, not in a paparazzi glamour shot, but framed in silver amongst a beach of stretching, grey sand. Arthur had found him in a photograph on Francis's coffee table the last time Francis had invited him in, had felt Francis's hand close around his and untangle his fingers from the frame wordlessly. Francis had mentioned Matthew before, once, in a fond manner before he changed the subject abruptly.

Arthur flipped the page but found no more of either Alfred or Matthew. He slid down and walked over to the pile of magazines Francis had stacked, shifting through a few promising ones. Alfred F. Jones spotted at Lanchester's. Alfred F. Jones attends benefit gathering. Alfred F. Jones and family in Malibu. If anything, Alfred's entire life was an open book. He didn't seem to be affected by cameras or the media detailing his every move, and instead used them to his advantage, almost: each picture was a shot of a smile, big and friendly and too approachable. There were only snippets of Matthew, partly hidden behind Alfred or half-cropped out of the picture, and even fewer articles dedicated to him. By the time Arthur had sifted through at least ten tabloids, everything he knew about Matthew were the information Francis had told him and tidbits indicating that Matthew was an art student. It wasn't much, and none of the papers linked him to Francis.

He was hoping for everything to piece themselves together then, neatly and thoroughly, because that honestly didn't sound too impossible, given the events from the past few days. It was of no consequence to Arthur whether he knew more of Alfred or Francis or even Matthew, but he wanted, no, needed to know. He needed to find his own answers this time. He reached for one more magazine, thumbing through its pages, and proceeded to replace it with another when an envelope fell out and hit the floor with a clatter that seemed abnormally loud in the silence.

It was small and unsealed, and the letter inside bore French that had been written by a meticulous hand, with scribbles and cross-outs here and there, until the only legible words that remained were at the very bottom. The note was dated months back, before Arthur had ever known that someone like Francis had existed.

_Mathieu,  
><em>"_J'ai été sotte, lui dit-elle enfin.  
><em>_Je te demande pardon.  
><em>_Tâche d'être heureux."_

Arthur made an attempt to cover the evidences of his search, but he held on to the letter. This was wrong, he knew perfectly, looking through Francis's things; he'd intruded on something private. But it seemed clearer now, somehow. It all hit Arthur with a strange sense of urgency that he'd failed to notice pattering footsteps coming down the hall.

The lights switched on. Arthur froze, but not before he tucked the letter into his pocket, rather than to risk Francis noticing that he'd been filing through his things.

"What is going on, Arthur?"

Accusing. Eyes hardened in distrust, Arthur imagined. His breathing hitched.

"I woke up," he said hastily.

He felt Francis's hand on his elbow.

"Are you leaving?" He heard Francis's tense sigh, after a moment. He hadn't seen Arthur's hand twitching on the magazine. "Because you know you don't have to."

"I'm not."

He could feel the relief rolling off of Francis.

"I'll make you something," he said. "There are leftovers, something simple—you'd gone to sleep early…"

He sounded like he loved Arthur. He acted like he loved Arthur, leading him to the chair and asking him what he wanted to have. Laughing off Arthur's snide remarks and supplying a few of his own. All genuine smiles and flashing eyes when Arthur needed them the most.

And despite all that, he couldn't _really_ love Francis—fall in the stereotypical head-over-heels sort of love—even if he'd wanted to. Francis was too much like him. And they would remain two lost people wandering in their own circles before going off in different directions. He knew from the unassuming photos, from Francis's unsent letter, from the mournful way Francis spoke of Matthew Williams.

But he wouldn't come to that conclusion just yet. So Arthur would try. It was easy to love a man who'd woken up in the middle of the night to make their guest soup, and he wanted to believe. He went up to Francis and rested his head on his back, between the man's shoulder blades. Francis didn't flinch, didn't even stop stirring whatever was in the pot, and Arthur didn't move.

"Are you tired?" he asked, as if Arthur had indeed lived in the same flat with him for years.

The wind banged a few more times against the windowpane and died down to a comfortable silence.

* * *

><p>"Is <em>this<em> what you call staircase wit?"

Francis stirred his coffee, raising an eyebrow blearily.

"And you use that in the sense…?"

Arthur flipped through another page of green ruffles and splashes of mauve, eyeing Francis's notes and sketches while he poked at his eggs and toast with a fork. The Saturday morning was a mild one, the previous day's cold having left with the rain. Francis had made breakfast (a pot of coffee and tea for Arthur and eggs and dry toast with some sort of jam), simple and laid out by the time Arthur meandered over to the kitchen.

("I didn't know you cooked," Arthur remarked upon the spread.

Francis quirked an eyebrow at him as he placed a fixed plate before Arthur.

"Then there is a great deal you do not know about me," Francis said, taking his seat. "How the tables have turned."

"I'd assumed you would have someone deliver."

"I am not an invalid. I do know how to do some things. Besides," he added, stirring his coffee with a practiced hand, "you are here with me this morning. Does that not give me all the reason in the world to make breakfast?")

"I mean that you must've fallen down the stairs when you thought of this drivel. This looks ridiculous."

Francis snorted.

"Maybe so, but they are for publicity, not practicality." He smiled and made a small gesture with his free hand. "So far it has done me no harm."

"And you want me to model these types of clothing?" Arthur said slowly, peering suspiciously at an outline.

"So you have been thinking about it?" Francis prompted.

Arthur bit off the corner of his bread and chewed thoughtfully.

"I never said I would do it," he explained. "I'm sure you have plenty of willing victims to display the aftermath of your fabric massacre."

"Men's fashion is more subtle. It is not easy to find a model whose features fit the design theme. It is simply difficult to work with incompatible models," Francis added, shrugging in resignation.

"I'm sure you'll find some way to charm their trousers off and make it all work out."

"Yes, yes," Francis said agreeably. "Just as I did with you."

"You wish."

The man's grin grew.

"You wait," he countered, easily and just as pleasantly. "I've already got you wearing my shirt, haven't I?"

That was only because Arthur found alcohol stains in various places on his shirt, but he didn't mention it. Arthur turned to the last section, a collection of men's coats, all neat corners and muted colors.

"And what is this 'theme' of yours?" he inquired sharply.

"That's confidential." Francis slid the sketchbook back towards himself and mulled over the designs. He pawed around the countertop without looking up until he found a pen, and began to sketch in additions to the originals. "Though I am thinking…_anges_."

"And that is?"

"Surely, _mon cher_, you are clever enough to figure it out."

"It is far too early. I am in no mood for guessing games."

"You are fickle, Arthur," Francis lamented. "You seem to have forgotten that it was you who'd woken me up last night."

"And you," returned Arthur, without skipping a beat, "seem to have forgotten that you were the one who thought it wise to bring me back here."

"Sometimes I ask myself why I let you stay here," Francis said, hiding the curve of his lips behind his coffee.

"Because you're a twit."

Francis took Arthur's hand in his, clasping it over the granite countertop as Arthur pretended not to notice.

"I have to check on my assistants today, see how they are faring without me," he said. "I can't have dear Lovino catching up at the next showcase."

"Believe me, he doesn't have to try."

"Come to another runway," he told Arthur, bringing his cup to the sink and dumping the remaining contents. "I will prove you and your impeccable logic wrong."

Arthur gave him an exasperated look, though they both knew he was faking it. Francis dipped two fingers under Arthur's chin to tilt the man's face upwards and kissed him briefly on the lips.

And Arthur let him, closing his eyes and tasting coffee beans and sweet; letting Francis kiss him in a gentle manner that was so unlike what he'd expected—it was warm, careful, and tainted with something heavy and bitter all at the same time. Not unpleasant, though not wholly comforting either.

"What are we doing?" Arthur said afterwards, an uncertain smile hinting at the edges when Francis pulled back.

Francis didn't answer immediately, but he looked at Arthur directly in the eye when he followed up with: "I love you."

There was a sort of decisive promise within those words, the way Francis looked resolutely at—no, _through_ him. Past Arthur himself and focused onto something else.

"You expect me to stay?" Arthur said quietly.

Francis clasped Arthur's hands in both of his own, pressing another kiss on the knuckles. He held them tightly, almost assertively, as if Arthur would pull away.

"I expect you to do as you want," Francis replied, when there was nothing more to be said. "Shall we have dinner tonight at the restaurant on Regent Lane?"

"No."

"Excellent. We'll go at eight." He grabbed his coat, moving towards the door in quick, long strides before Arthur could swat him with the sketchpad. "I'll be back at around six, Arthur."

"Do you _really_ expect me to stay?" Arthur repeated, his question lingering after the Frenchman.

"Certainly not," Francis called back, as if appalled at such an idea, before stepping out. "I expect that I'll have to bring you home."

Arthur wasn't even aware that Francis's apartment had somehow become his home.

* * *

><p>When Arthur trekked back to his and Feliciano's flat later in the afternoon, he wasn't expecting to be greeted by a six-foot-something wall of muscle.<p>

"Oh," he said. Arthur stared at the man for a few seconds before he took a hesitant step back. Never mind the muscles, the guy probably ate bricks and ten raw eggs as general sustenance, the way he was staring back at Arthur like he wanted to crush bones. "Sorry, wrong door—"

"Arthur Kirkland?" Wall of Muscles said. His voice was slightly accented, and boy, if Arthur thought he'd found blue eyes in Alfred, he was wrong. "You are Feliciano's roommate?"

"Oh—" Arthur racked his brain for a name until it hit him. "You're Ludwig, isn't that right?"

Holy crap, so _he_ was Feliciano's German boyfriend. Now that Arthur was looking at him up close, he had to wonder how Feliciano didn't just dissolve in a puddle of frightened jelly at the sight of him. In the most awkward sense, Ludwig resembled a sculpture, as if someone had come along and just chiseled the man out of a slab of marble, or a Roman general in those historical dramas. Or one of those people who worked out at gyms all morning and drank raw vegetable smoothies and owned ferocious purebred dogs. Those biceps could _not_ be normal.

But Ludwig relaxed, the tension evaporating from his furrowed brows instantaneously. Arthur deduced that the stick-in-ass expression that had been previously plastered on his face was some sort of default mode for meeting with strangers. He stepped aside and allowed a sliver of space for Arthur to just slip in.

"He—Feliciano would not let me leave yesterday," Ludwig explained, somewhat distressed, which to helped lessen a bit of the stony soul-crushing vibrations emitting from the man. "He was worried something had happened to you last night, but he was afraid that if he called the police you would be annoyed."

The room was a wreck. Sheets and watercolors were strewn about on the floor, along with pieces of charcoal and pencils. Arthur's table, thankfully, was left untouched.

"Was that what he said?" Arthur asked, surveyed the mess as he tossed a pillow back onto the couch.

"Honestly, he was speaking to fast for me to catch most of them," Ludwig admitted. "And not in English either. I tried to keep him from tearing down the apartment." He gestured to the paintings. "Those kept him distracted for a while."

"Looks like you two were doing more than just painting," Arthur said, leaving Ludwig to clear his throat, embarrassed. "Where is he now?"

"He isn't up yet." Ludwig pulled on a jacket that had been sitting on the armchair. "I have to leave, actually, but I didn't want to go in case Feliciano woke up—"

Arthur waved him off.

"It's fine, I'm sorry he kept you this long. And you didn't do too badly. At least the kitchen is still intact this time." He tried to smile at Ludwig, but he wasn't sure if it translated too well. The man was practically radiating authority; it was terrifying. "Thanks for looking after, um, the place."

"I made coffee," Ludwig pointed out. "And I bought lunch."

"Oh." _We have a coffee machine? _" Thanks. I guess."

Before Ludwig wedged himself out the door, he paused and took one last look at Arthur.

"You were one of Lovino's models," Ludwig stated, reassuming his stoic frown. Arthur told himself that Ludwig was glaring because he was confused, not because he wanted to pound Arthur to dust. "Do you work for him also?"

"No," Arthur said, perhaps a bit too hurriedly. "No, no—that was a one time thing, it was Feliciano—"

"I understand," he said, and nodded his goodbye. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

"You, too," Arthur muttered, then closed the door and hooked on the latch for good measure, releasing a sigh he'd been holding in. He went into Feliciano's room and found the boy buried between the sheets, half-dressed as always; Arthur shook his shoulder, prompting him to wake. "Feliciano. Feliciano—"

"Hm?" He brushed brown locks out of his face and fixed a glazed look upon Arthur. "Arthur? You're home."

"Yes," he said. "Tell me why the house looks like you'd decided to wrestle the sofa and lost, and why your Spartan boyfriend stayed over yesterday and made coffee from an appliance I didn't know we owned. Jesus, I felt like he was bidding me farewell and going off to battle or something. How can you even stand that?"

Feliciano gave Arthur a sleepy smile.

"Ludwig," he murmured contently. "He stayed with me. I told him I was afraid you'd gotten into trouble."

"Of course I didn't get into trouble, who do you take me for? And what are you so happy about—oh God." Arthur stood, making a face when he spotted a darkened bruise on Feliciano's collar. "You and him—you _did_. In our apartment. You—" He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not on my bed. Please tell me that."

"Of course not." Feliciano had the audacity to look scandalized. He caught the shirt Arthur threw at him and languidly pulled it on. "We did it on the couch."

"You know, it _is_ very curious how you manage to make that sound better than it ought to be." Arthur went into the dining room and peered inside the brown bag Ludwig had left,; he took out what seemed to be a paper-wrapped sandwich. "He even left you food, how considerate. What's this?"

Feliciano yawned, stretching.

"What's what?" he asked, rubbing his eye.

Arthur showed him the glass bottle.

"The Starbucks bottle. It's got a note with my name on it." He peeled the tape and unfolded it; Feliciano took his mug of coffee on the counter and scanned the paper, gulping down the drink. "It's from Alfred."

"It's got an address," Feliciano said. "That's the movie theatre a couple streets down. On Fourth, maybe? Or Fifth, I don't remember."

"'Sor_ry about last time. Let's have a do-over. See you at eight o'clock?'_," Arthur read, feeling the color drain from his face as his thumb smudged the gaudy smiley face Alfred had drawn. "He wants me to meet him there."

"That sounds fun."

"I can't go," Arthur said, emphasizing every word.

"Why not?"

"Because—" He stammered, wringing his hands as if rummaging for an adequate answer. "I don't have the time, I don't want to go—no, he's most likely not even going to be there." He frowned at Feliciano's unimpressed look. "I don't know him. I met him on the streets and saw him again at the after-party—" Big smiles and blue eyes, Arthur recalled. "—and he bought me a drink. The end. He could be absolutely mad, Feliciano."

"Yes, and I could be a deranged killer posing as an art student."

"Are you?"

"I _could_ be. But I'm not. Just go. It'd be rude not to." Feliciano shrugged, a smooth motion, like a shiver down a cat's spine.

"I can't go," Arthur reasserted, but upon Feliciano's inquisitive expression, he sighed helplessly. "I made arrangements…with someone else tonight."

"Oh." Arthur wasn't certain which was worse" Feliciano's disapproving glances or his knowing snickers. "Then call him, at the very least."

"I don't have his number." Lies. "He didn't leave it in the note."

"Take my phone then," Feliciano said easily. "He's on my contact list, I think."

"How do you know him?"

"Got lost in an art museum once," he said, as if that explained everything. "Call him."

He caught the phone thrown over to him, but tossed it right back to its owner.

"I'll call him when I find myself dying in an alley," Arthur said peevishly, ignoring Feliciano's protests. He went into his room and unbuttoned his stained-shirt, realizing with a start that he had brought Francis's letter home.

The shirt was thrown into the laundry basket, and the letter tucked between one of Arthur's old physics books.

* * *

><p>Arthur knew he was in trouble when the doorbell rang at seven and a bored deliveryman deposited two wrapped packages with a letter labeled 'Bonnefoy' into his hands. He read the letter first, a two-liner written with flowing penmanship—<em>Mon cher<em>, _I'll be there at eight o'clock; new design in the box. I had to guess your size. _Arthur was conflicted between how creepy it was that Francis knew he was back in his university, and that he had a guy deliver the boxes right to his dorm, but when he saw the contents the unease was replaced by wonder. Nestled between white tissue paper was a grey suit pointed in all the right edges and fitted down to the last centimeter, matching trousers, and a tie the color of mist; in the second box he found shoes that had just a bit of heel, enough to emphasize the sharpness of the design. The material felt almost foreign in Arthur's hands, and he felt ridiculous for having inwardly marveled at the outfit when just this morning he had laughed at the peculiarity of Francis's sketchbook.

Now, dressed in Francis's creations and trying to fix the tangles in his hair in the mirror, he knew he looked every bit like the person he promised himself he would never become—self-obsessed, petty, materialistic. He looked different; good, but not himself. But Francis must have meant well with the gift. He was the one that had been preaching about self-identity and happiness and the load of nonsense; it would be hypocritical for Francis to suddenly so flagrantly change his intentions. He didn't think Francis would do that. But who was he to judge anyways?

Feliciano had gone out to meet his brother, and Arthur did not forget to leave a note on the refrigerator in case Feliciano forgot that Arthur had gone out. Taking one last look at himself, Arthur was hit by a sudden feeling of wanting to see Chelle again. He wanted someone to tell him that he was making a mistake, as Chelle had done with Renald; someone to tell him that Francis Bonnefoy did not love him truly, that he was not permanent, that he was the same as Alfred.

Francis parked in the front of the university, where he had last dropped Arthur off. He took Arthur's hand and kissed it, wordlessly conveying his sentiments when he companied the action with a typical leer. Normally Arthur would object, though there were hardly any students on the campus, and with the dimmed skyline no one could tell who he was. Francis told him he was _magnifique _and held the door open for him_; _Arthur returned that Francis looked like a right terror and got into the car, slapping Francis's wandering hand away.

Dinner was quiet, their table located in a secluded alcove, the way Arthur liked it. Francis told him of Paris and Rome and Russia where he'd had his runways, covering Arthur's hand with his own on top of their table. He laughed at all the right moments asked all the right questions, and made Arthur wonder how anyone like Francis could be real.

After a bit, he noticed that Francis hadn't touched his glass, and threw a look at him.

Francis answered, "Formalities. I thought I should stay sober today. Heavens knows someone has to be clear in the mind with _you_ intoxicated, _mon cher_."

Arthur shot him a withering glower and made a show of gulping down the last of his wine.

"That's big of you," Arthur said scornfully, but Francis only looked pleasantly at him. "I'll see to it that you'll be happy to drag me back to my dorms and be rid of me."

"Hardly. I do enjoy decent conversations, Arthur."

"Only if women would throw themselves at you afterwards, no doubt."

"Sometimes." Francis leaned forward interestedly and asked, "Was it like this, your home? Like London, dreary and old with terrible weather?"

"No," Arthur muttered back. "It is sunnier. But do stop talking about London like that, you make it sound as if we live in a cave."

"Dark and easily displeased, not unlike your personality—"

"Stop that," Arthur laughed, setting down his glass. "Though to be honest with you, sometimes I wish to go home."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Arthur said, contemplative. "But it's not bad here, I'll admit. Back home would be same old buildings, same old weather, same old people. London is big. It gets lonely, but there are bigger train stations to go wherever the hell you want."

"Do you miss them?" Francis said. "The people you left."

"Of course I do." His voice grew smaller. "But sometimes it's better to leave."

"And why is that?" Francis prompted gently.

"So the things you don't want to remember can't follow you," Arthur said simply.

"Is it working?"

"Well, obviously not," Arthur said testily. "I met you, haven't I?"

Francis chuckled and added with a grin, "It is curious. You are afraid of being changed, but you are more of your own person than anyone I've met."

"I do try," Arthur replied. "In case I meet people like you."

Francis smiled benignly.

"You are something else entirely, Arthur," he said.

Arthur, raising drink to lips once more, pretended that he didn't hear his words.

"Is that so—"

"Are you…Francis Bonnefoy?" came a new voice anxiously. It was a young woman, face delicately made up with glimmer, with bouncing curls tucked behind her jewelry-clad ears. She was looking at Francis expectantly, fear and excitement showing in her wide eyes.

"_Oui_, _mademoiselle_," Francis purred back, after recovering from the intrusion. He took her hands and pressed his lips upon them, eliciting a suppressed giggle from the woman. "And who might you be? Surely such a beautiful lady is not alone tonight?"

"Oh—oh, no, I'm with my father, actually," she stuttered out. "I just—I am such big fan, I've seen your runways before, the spring collection is just gorgeous. I've been meaning to meet you and talk to you in person, but I didn't have the chance—I couldn't believe it when I saw you here, I was so surprised—"

"_Ma cherie_, as much as I would hate to admit," Francis said, inclining his head in Arthur's direction, "I am unfortunately preoccupied tonight. Could you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

The woman, apparently seeing Arthur for the first time, gasped a little in embarrassment.

"I am so sorry!" she gushed. Her face was dusted with a pretty blush. "I have such terrible timing, I just saw Mr. Bonnefoy and—"

"A small matter," Francis assured her, and slipped out a card from his wallet, pressing it into her hands and winking. "I'm sure we can find some other time to talk. I would be a fool to miss such an opportunity—"

"It'll be quick, my father's right here!" she promised, wrapping her hands around Francis's wrist. "We're from Monte Industries, we sponsored your last show, the one for London Fashion Week."

"Oh, well, that is—"

The woman continued, ignoring Arthur now, and started to elaborate on the ingenuity of Francis's new design. And Francis answered with equal fervor, looking more animated than Arthur had seen him. And Arthur felt that he didn't fit. Not in Francis's upscale gifts nor the restaurant.

"No, no," Arthur said. He gave a gracious nod to the woman. "Don't mind me." He turned to Francis, whose eyes were wide in confusion and worry.

"Arthur—" Francis sounded alarmed, but he still hadn't relinquished his hold on the woman's hand.

"It's fine, Francis, it doesn't matter." And he pushed back his chair, standing. "I'm going to use the restroom. Excuse me."

Arthur made a sharp turn and quickened his steps, treading around tables for the exit. Unfortunately preoccupied, that was what he amounted to, in the end. Everything he'd been telling himself were lies, trying to convince himself that Francis were not all that different. He hurried outside without his coat and was hit by an onslaught of chilled night air. And he ran, down the street and past couples huddling together for warmth. He didn't know this area by heart, having never ventured this far from the university before. He knew he had a cell phone, that he could just ask any one for directions, but Arthur felt utterly lost then, and that the city suddenly felt so _large_ and empty.

He ran until he was sure he'd lost both himself and Francis, if Francis ever even thought of going after him. If Francis noticed, that was. Arthur slowed to a walk, panting heavily, and sank to the concrete as he tried to catch his breathe. Francis's stupid shirt was constricting; Arthur popped a few buttons open and leaned back against the brick wall of some building corner he'd stopped at, eyes closed and thinking of nothing at all.

He was about to dial Feliciano's number and make the Italian pick him up, late hour be damned, when a shadow loomed over him and asked, "Are you alright?"

"Pardon?" Arthur got out breathlessly. He looked up, but all he saw was the figure of a person blurred by streetlight.

"Just wondering if you were okay," the person said. "I mean, do you like sitting there or something, you know, ten o'clock at night, dressed like that and all." His accent was off, but with blood pounding in his ears, Arthur could hardly make out the words; he sounded like Francis, which was bizarre and a little bit off-putting.

"White-tie runaway? What are you talking about?"

"My brother's like that, too. Speaking of which, have you seen him? Tall, blond, American, glasses like mine, anyone like that?"

"No, I haven't—I don't know any Americans here except for Alfred, and not that well either—"

"_Alfred_?" the man stooped, bending down to Arthur's level. "You know him?"

"Barely," Arthur groused. "He's been bothering me for tours of London and silly things—who are you—" Then his vision cleared; in front of him was a face full of anticipation, framed by chin-length wavy locks and a wayward strand that refused to stay down. "Bloody hell. You're Matthew. _You're_ Matthew."

"You know who I am?" Matthew said, stunned and pleasantly surprised at the same time.

He almost had to stop himself before he called Matthew Alfred; the similarity was uncanny. But upon closer inspection, Matthew's facial structure was more delicate, and his mannerisms softer and deliberate as he spoke.

"Well, not exactly," Arthur said after a while. "Alfred's mentioned you before."

Matthew, to Arthur's surprise, sat down next to him and tucked his legs in, looking at Arthur sympathetically as if he'd done this before.

"So," he said, sounding actually concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am," Arthur replied, despite being out of breath. "What makes you ask that?"

"Well, just like I've said before." Matthew shrugged. "White-tie runaway. Got stood up, left the party. Or in Alfred's case, leaving for a breath of fresh air and never making it back inside." He turned those big, pale-colored eyes on Arthur meaningfully. "So what's your deal?"

"I—uh, the latter, I guess."

"I see," Matthew said, seemingly considering Arthur's meaning. "I never did get to ask your name."

Arthur told him; Matthew nodded thoughtfully, twiddling with his thumbs.

"I do hope you are feeling better," he said honestly; it was amazing, Arthur thought, that someone could sound so sincere to a person they'd known for five minutes. "Alfred never tells anyone if something's wrong. He just keeps it to himself until everything crashes around him. It's better not to involve other people, he says, and just takes and takes. It's frustrating, he's just so difficult sometimes."

"He seems full of himself all the time," Arthur couldn't help but add.

"Exactly!" Matthew exclaimed in some strange combination of whispering and shouting. "He doesn't know when to stop. That's why I always have to look after him before he dies in some dumpster. God, he just left without leaving word, he's impossible." He sighed. "How do you know Alfred, anyways? He's never mentioned you."

"He kept pestering me and wouldn't leave me alone. I bumped into him on the street. Kind of."

"He's like that," Matthew agreed. "But he's not a bad person. You've seen all those awful tabloids, right? No? Well, that's good, I suppose, because they're not true." He seemed to be talking to himself now, thoughts wandering afar. "You don't think he's like that, do you?"

"What?" Arthur furrowed his brows, unsure of his own answer. "No, not really."

"That's good to hear," Matthew said, relieved. "He needs a friend here."

"Were you looking for him?"

Matthew stood immediately with a startled jolt, expression becoming panicked again.

"That's right! I'm sorry, I'm saying things again." Matthew moaned, pressing both hands and grinding them into his face. "Dad is going to kill him. I've got to run. You don't know where he is, right? It's okay. I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Hold on!" Arthur bit his lip, then breathed out. "I was supposed to meet him at the theatre near Fifth, somewhere there. Can you tell him…tell him I'm sorry."

Matthew regarded Arthur in a bewildered manner, as if uncertain of what to make of the statement.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll do that."

As quick as he'd come, Matthew Williams disappeared behind the building corner, and it was just Arthur again, sitting in the middle of some deserted street in downtown London, which was basically in the middle of goddamned nowhere. Arthur would label that meeting as one of the oddest ones he'd had, right next to Ludwig's introduction.

He sat there for a few moments more, steadying his breath and watching wisps of smoke flow out and vanish. This definitely ranked in the top five of the dumbest things Arthur had ever pulled. He would have to go back to the restaurant eventually and get his jacket. It was either that or catch his death trying to find his way back to his own apartment, because upon further pondering, there was no way Feliciano would pick up his phone after nine o' clock. The boy slept like a rock.

Arthur wasn't quite so frustrated anymore. He felt absolutely nothing. The run was liberating, sure, but it must've been because he expected it. He was inwardly waiting for the point Francis would leave. He just never imagined it'd be so soon. So he let his eyes slip shut again, taking in crisp night air and focusing on that instead. He would wait a bit before attempting to find his way back to the restaurant.

What he didn't expect was seeing Francis run down the street as Arthur tried to retrace his steps, face red and panting and looking positively murderous.

"What are you doing here?" was the first thing Arthur thought to say.

"What," Francis managed to get out, after a few short breathes, "am I doing here. What am _I _doing here?" His face contorted into genuine anger, something that Arthur had never thought Francis to be capable of. "What the hell do _you_ think you are doing?"

"White-tie runaway?" Arthur tried, remembering what Matthew had labeled him. He was absolutely thrown off; Francis was as distressed as Arthur had been, high-society veneer and nonchalant smiles ripped clean off.

At that remark, Francis stopped, regarding Arthur with a conflicted, petrified expression. Then he fell apart, the strains from his frown melting away and leaving behind a look of devastation and heartbreak, and the thought that Francis had never looked more alive and human crossed Arthur's mind. He grabbed Arthur's wrist and gathered him into his arms, just holding him, burying his face into Arthur's shoulders wordlessly.

"What's gotten into you?" Arthur said disbelievingly.

"Stop running."

"What?"

Francis was holding onto Arthur like a drowning man.

"You left," he said, pushing back and cupping Arthur's face with his hands.

"Do you see me going anywhere now?" Arthur said sardonically, but he added, "You didn't want me to stay."

"Arthur—_Mon Dieu—_I just—" Francis, Arthur thought, had the gall to look that hurt. "Don't run from me. Please."

"I wasn't trying to," Arthur answered slowly. "I thought I was bothering you."

"Bothering me?" Francis repeated incredulously. "Do you think I asked you out tonight because you bother me?"

"I don't know," Arthur shot back, perhaps a bit too harshly. "You were right. I don't know what you're thinking. I don't _know_ you."

"It is because you are not—not like me. Or anyone else," Francis explained, reaching for the right words that he couldn't seem to find. His accent was getting heavier, more convoluted "You show me what is real. Because you are different. I do not have the words for it in English—but it is that you are yourself that I care for you, Arthur, can't you see?"

"Francis, stop—"

"You talk about how you are afraid of becoming someone else. But you are more of yourself than anyone I have ever met. It is—it is astonishing how you are able to stay the same, even after everything you've been through. You are stubborn and sarcastic and you speak without thinking, but that is how you are. And you are really something else, I do mean it, please understand—"

"Do me a favor, Francis. Shut up."

Francis stopped.

"Is that my coat?" Arthur asked. Francis was clutching it in his hands, and Arthur smiled, despite everything.

"I was not sure where you had gone to—"

"Take me home."

"Yes, of course, I will. We can go now, I will drop you off—"

"No." Arthur grabbed Francis's head and crushed his mouth onto Francis's lips. "Take me home."

And Francis just nodded. Arthur thought of Matthew on the way back to Francis's apartment, wondering what he could've meant by white-tie runaway, and if Alfred was really there at the theatre.

* * *

><p>Francis was painfully gentle. Arthur didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe for Francis to tear off his tie and push Arthur back onto the bed, kissing him within an inch of his life. Clichéd things like that, making Arthur scream out the most obscene noises and leaving marks where everyone could see.<p>

But no. Not that Arthur wasn't satisfied; Francis hadn't lied when he spoke of _amour_ and lewd innuendoes and lovemaking. He did make Arthur crumple, hands grabbing at sheets for a handle and finding air instead when Francis rocked into him, alternating between uttering French nonsense and English reassurances. Promises laced with anxiety and lust and pure want. It was all stifling and Arthur lost count of how many times Francis told him he loved him, but what bothered Arthur the most was why Francis was handling him like he would break. Every trace between his thighs was marked with hesitance, but calculated carefully so that Arthur would elicit a startled gasp whenever Francis pushed forward.

Arthur thought there was something missing, but he merely brushed it off as an afterthought.

Arthur laid on top of Francis the next morning, head rested in the crook of Francis's neck and feeling the dull thud of heartbeats beneath his own.

"You were quiet," Arthur told him, tracing Francis's stubble with a finger.

"I didn't realize," Francis murmured back, hand tangled in Arthur's terrible mess of hair.

"Was something the matter?"

"Not at all," he said, then, with a lecherous smirk that was all Francis, "I told you I would get you into my bed."

"See how long I will stay," Arthur retorted, but he didn't make an attempt to move. "You've said a bit of French yesterday. What was it?"

"It is nothing. An old memory." Francis waved it away, grinning widely and muttering along Arthur's jaw. "Let's stay in today. I don't have to work."

"Doesn't mean that I don't."

"Let's call room service."

"You live here, frog," Arthur laughed. "You don't have room service."

"I'll take you somewhere nice. Not that there's anywhere nice to go in England."

"You're an impossible git," Arthur said, shoving a hand in Francis's face and raising himself upright.

"Impossibly good in bed."

"You were okay."

"Sounded better than okay," Francis snorted, grabbing at Arthur's thigh.

"Don't get so full of yourself, git," Arthur warned, "else there'll be no more room for your gigantic head to fit in here." He pressed himself against Francis again, coaxed by a hand guiding him back down. "It's Sunday. I should be looking over next week's lecture."

"Let me take you to Paris."

"Don't be silly." Arthur pulled himself up from bed and gathered up his scattered clothing, moving towards the restroom.

Francis propped his head up on one arm

"I could do it," he said, musing. "It could just be a week. City of Lights, _Angleterre_."

"Not interested."

"How about a party? In honor of my work and a few other designer's. There is an art viewing two weeks from now. I would like it if you accompanied me."

"Maybe." Arthur returned by the bed, fully clothed and tidy. "I'm going to go back to the university."

"You can still walk?"

"That's none of your business."

"Actually, after yesterday I think that is completely my business."

"Thank you for your consideration," Arthur said lowly against Francis's lips. "But I'm capable of looking after myself."

"I never said you weren't." Francis quirked an eyebrow. "I will see you later, then?"

"Next Saturday," Arthur replied. "I've been distracted last week, I have to catch up on my work. And I do have a job, you know."

"I have offered you one," Francis said. "You still haven't given me an answer."

"I'll think about it."

"Not going to grace me with your presence at the table, Sir Arthur?"

"Not today," Arthur said. "I've work to do."

"You are fickle."

"So I've been told. Don't die without me around, frog."

Francis scoffed, "I'll try not to."

And he kissed Arthur slowly and silently in a way that made Arthur recall, for some reason, both Renald and Alfred.


End file.
